


The Unusual Suspects

by celesteavonne



Category: The Unusuals
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 55,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celesteavonne/pseuds/celesteavonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mugger attacks random disconnected people, leaving clues written on the victim's hands. This starts Shraeger and Walsh on the path to find a killer who seems to know all of Second Squad's secrets. Meanwhile, Dr. Crumb decides to take matters into her own hands with Delahoy, wrecking Banks' illusions of a calm, normal life in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hand Writing

**Hand Writing**

_Second Precinct, we have a report of an attempted armed robbery on_ _East Houston_. _Suspect is described as a middle-aged male dressed as a trout._

Sergeant Brown skirted the semi-conscious drunk in handcuffs and entered the office. Rain spattered in fitful gusts outside, turning the morning into a cold, damp blur. He’d only gotten one cup of coffee before his wife and son got into it, and he’d slipped in a puddle on the way out, soaking his shoes and his pants’ cuff. So it was going to be one of _those_ days.

He sank into his desk chair and opened the first file on the stack. He scratched his head.

“Yep,” he muttered. “One of those days.”

In the hallway, Shraeger and Walsh were dickering over somesuch. He heard mention of _Sauron_ and _ring wraiths_. His mind reached wistfully toward thoughts of coffee before he interrupted them.

“Got a case,” he said, passing the file to Shraeger. “College student, this morning. Assault, attempted mugging. She’s in Interview 3.”

Shraeger opened the file, scanned it, then said to the Sergeant’s retreating form, “How can it be a mugging if the attacker didn’t take anyth—?”

The Sergeant raised a hand and disappeared into the break room.

Walsh peered over the folder’s edge at the photos inside. “Cynthia Patronelli, age nineteen,” he said. “Takes the train to school, same as every morning. Only this morning, masked attacker, 7 a.m., rifled contents of the backpack, but...” He flipped the first photo over to reveal the second. After a moment’s study, he stepped beside Shraeger and they held the file between them.

The second photo showed the girl’s upturned palm with the number 314 written across it.

Walsh grimaced. “What’s that, a Bible reference?”

“No, that’d be 316,” Shraeger said. She pulled up the corner of the photo. Shrugged. “314 is Pi. Why would a mugger attack a girl and write the number for Pi across her palm?”

“Guess that’s what the boss wants us to find out,” Walsh said. He closed the file and gestured down the hall.

Shraeger led the way. After a few steps, she said, “It’s unfair to compare Amy to Sauron. She’s, like, Little Miss Christian Tinkerbell. And Cole’s a good person. Getting hitched isn’t gonna twist him into something different.”

They paused at the door. Walsh said, “Just sayin’, there’s something to rings having power. They’re the very symbol of change, and Cole will never be the same come Saturday when they exchange those vows.”

“Hm,” Shraeger said. “Never pegged you as Symbolism Guy.”

He said, “I may not have attended five prep schools—” Shraeger pursed her lips. He went on, “ _But_ I get that objects can have power.”

“And numbers,” Shraeger added.

Walsh arched his brows. He knuckled the door, and they went inside.

 

* * *

 

Detective Eddie Alvarez stepped into the lobby, shaking his umbrella, muttering to himself, when he looked up to see Detective Beaumont collaring a perp dressed as a fish.

“Nice catch,” he said as they mounted the stairs. “Got a license for that thing?”

“No worries,” she said, suppressing a smile. “This one’s just a fluke.”

“Please stop,” the fish moaned.

“Probably not a catch and release, then? What’s his crime?” Alvarez asked. “Leaning on the scales?”

“Robbed a liquor store,” she shot back. “You know what they say about fish and drinking.”

Alvarez raised his cocked fingers and pantomimed a shot. “Shore do.”

The fish sighed, dejected. “I will _pay_ you to stop.”

“With what, sand dollars?” Beaumont snorted.

Alvarez chuckled. “Clams,” he said.

The fish gagged.

“Don’t give me that,” she said. “You’re the one wearin’ the costume.”

“Reminds me of last summer,” Alvarez said. “Nicole and I went fishing at Montauk. I caught a fish...” He leaned over and splayed his arms to encompass the fish’s whole body. “This big.”

“Can’t imagine you fishing,” Beaumont admitted.

“Oh,” Alvarez said, “There’s a lot about me and Nicole that would surprise you.”

Beaumont’s smile faltered. “Those waters are a little deeper than I care to go, Alvarez.” She rounded the landing and shoved the perp forward.

“Hey, Beaumont,” Alvarez said. “You seen Walsh?”

“Not since this morning,” she answered. She disappeared around the next flight up.

Alvarez entered the precinct office to find it empty save for Cole, who was on his cell phone at his desk and Officers Donovan and Dobbs were engrossed in a conversation by the water cooler.

“Cole,” Alvarez said, raising his voice. “Where are Banks and Delahoy?”

Cole held up a finger and continued to speak on his phone.

“And Walsh? And Shraeger?” Alvarez said to himself. He went to his desk and, after making a surreptitious scan around the office, pulled out a file. He opened it, jotted a few notes, then slipped it back in place. After several seconds of bouncing on his toes, he went to Sergeant Brown’s office to have a little chat.

 

* * *

 

“No, I’m not going,” Eric Delahoy said as he leaned back in his chair.

“Why not? It could be fun,” Leo Banks asked. He peeled the paper wrapper from his chopsticks and stabbed dubiously at his spring roll. “Y’know. Cake. Dancing. Free wine.”

“It’s a wedding,” Delahoy said. The waitress plopped down two bowls of soup between them. “This is the special three-ring gooseneck, right?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I guess.”

“She guesses.”

Banks gave him a wan smile. “Cole’s our friend. We should go.”

“Cole’s our co-worker,” Delahoy countered. “It’s probably some big Baptist to-do, which means a three hour ceremony _sans_ dancing and definitely no alcohol. I’m not going.”

Banks tested his soup and frowned. “I don’t think this is gooseneck—”

“Uh oh,” Delahoy said as the front door opened and Doctor Monica Crumb appeared, drenched, irritated, and searching.

“Maybe it’s hog’s neck masquerading as gooseneck,” Banks was saying.

Delahoy scraped his chair back. “No, I mean, _uh oh_.”

Monica sighted him, stalked over, and dragged a chair to the end of their table.

“Monica,” Eric said.

“Dr. Crumb?” Leo said.

She brushed them off, annoyed. “Eric,” she said. “Since I’m no longer tied to NYPD through my position as Medical Examiner, I see no reason why we can’t date.”

She stared at him a long while. Banks’ mouth hung agape as he looked from her to Delahoy and then back to her.

Then she said, “Also, I’m pregnant.”

Banks pushed away from the table. “Whoa whoa whoa, wait.” He flicked a glance at Delahoy. “You didn’t use a condom?”

“That’s what bothers you about this conversation, that we didn’t use protection?” Delahoy said.

And Banks said, “What is this, 1985? Who doesn’t use condoms?”

Monica stood, took Delahoy’s wrist, and hauled him from the table. Surprising to both him and his partner, Delahoy followed.

“Where are you—?” Banks began.

Monica said, “My first act as girlfriend is to take him to a doctor.”

“?” Banks said.

“Eric has a tumor the size of a Toyota on his occipital lobe,” she told him. “If I’m gonna carry his child, he should at least be present for its birth.”

Delahoy couldn’t bring his eyes to meet Banks’. Instead, he snatched his fortune cookie from the table and let Monica lead him out into the stormy New York after noon.

 

* * *

 

Cynthia Patronelli nattered at a loose string on the thumb of her fingerless glove. A purpling bruise bloomed over her right temple, disappearing into her hairline. She was a tall girl, with waxen skin and dark, limp hair that hung in her eyes. She appeared like any ordinary college student in New York, right down to the tiny silver stud in her left eyebrow.

Shraeger passed a bottle of water across the table, and the girl took it between her hands. “Miss Patronelli, we realize this is difficult for you, but can you tell us—”

“I’ll tell you anything you need to know,” Cynthia said, raising her tear-tired eyes to theirs. “Anything to help you catch this creep.”

“All right,” Walsh said. “Good. So. You were heading for the train this morning. Tell us all you can remember, any detail.”

“Well it was raining,” she said. “And I was running late. It was really crowded on the street. I was checking my phone when I stepped off a curb and got water in my boot. All I did was move off the sidewalk into the alleyway beside Delancey Produce, and then...” She tugged at the wrists of her gloves, pulling them tighter over her hands.

Shraeger glanced at Walsh. “You told the officer he hit you from behind?” she prompted.

“H-he knocked me down. I dropped my phone,” she said. “He told me he had a knife.”

“Did you see a knife?” Walsh asked.

Cynthia shook her head vehemently. “I didn’t see anything. Just. A mask. He was wearing a blue ski mask. But I only saw that from the corner of my eye. That was right before he –” she took a deep breath “ – before he hit me.”

Shraeger nodded, giving the girl some time. The EMTs at the scene concurred to blunt trauma to her left temple. Bruising, no concussion.

“Okay, what happened next?” Walsh urged.

Cynthia brushed her hair from her eyes. “He, um—” she cleared her throat. “He held me down and went through my backpack, I thought he was robbing me, and I told him, I said, ‘I don’t have any money. You can have everything, just don’t hurt me.’ And he said, ‘I’m not here to hurt you. There are bigger things than you and me. I’m here to send a message.’ That’s when he did this.”

She peeled her glove back and showed the thick black numbers written in indelible marker across her palm.

“That’s the message?” Shraeger asked.

“Bigger things, huh?” Walsh said. He sat forward. “So he writes this on your hand and then—?”

Cynthia shook her head. “He told me to put my head down and count to sixty or he’d kill me,” she said. “So I did. I thought he was going to murder me, so it’s probably sick that – I felt relieved. But I _do_ feel relieved. People get attacked every day, Detective Walsh. I felt like I was getting off easy. I mean, that’s _sick_ , right?”

“No, it’s not sick,” Shraeger said. “This does happen, and with far worse outcomes. You did the right thing by keeping your head down.”

Walsh nodded. He said, “Have you noticed anything unusual around your home, anyone following you or calling, anyone from work or from school? Does this number mean anything to you?”

“N-no. Nothing,” she said.

“Birthday? Apartment number?” he asked.

Cynthia shook her head.

“You got a boyfriend?” Shraeger asked.

“Nathan.” She smiled. “We’ve been together since tenth grade. He’s at Berkeley right now, we only see each other on holidays. I texted him after... He’s really worried.”

“I bet he is,” Shraeger said, keeping a soothing tone. “When the attacker told you to put your head down...”

“I did like he said,” Cynthia said, her eyes wide now. “I counted to sixty. When I got up, he was gone, and I was dizzy, so I went into the store and called 911. Then there were police and the paramedics so I didn’t even realize about the figurine until I got here.”

“Wait? Figurine?” Shraeger asked.

Walsh flipped through the file. “Report doesn’t mention a figurine.”

“That’s ’cause I just found it in my backpack. I wanted a cough drop,” Cynthia explained. “I’ve been talking so much, and it’s cold, and anyway, this was in my bag.” From her lap she brought forth a green glass cat figurine carrying a shield.

Cynthia uttered a baffled laugh. She said, “I mean, what psycho mugger attacks someone, writes on their hand, and then gives them something? It’s crazy, right? It’s—” The girl began to tremble as she placed the piece on the table before them. “Who does that?”

She dissolved into tears. Agitated, Walsh got up and nodded for Shraeger to follow. At the door, he whispered, “We’ll get the photos to the lab, maybe find a match on the handwriting. She’s touched the – what is that?”

“I think it’s a cat,” Shraeger said.

“Well. Whatever. It’s possible they could lift the attacker’s print.”

Shraeger said, “I’ll canvass the area, see if anyone saw a man in a blue ski mask. And I’ll see if we can connect those numbers to something nearby. Maybe an address? Apartment number?”

“Good,” Walsh said. He chewed his lip. “The figurine, though.”

At the interrogation table, Cynthia stared at it as though she could explode it to bits with her mind.

“I know,” Shraeger agreed. “Weird.”

“We’ve got almost nothing,” Walsh said. “We’ll have to wait for him to move again.”

“You think he’s gonna?” Shraeger asked.

“Well,” Walsh said. He cracked his neck. “He told her he was sending a message. ‘Bigger things than you and me.’ I think he’s just getting started.”

“We better order a guard for her, just in case—”

Walsh’s brow furrowed. “We’ll put a guy on it, but I don’t think she’s the target.” He paused and seemed, for a moment, oddly abstracted. Then he said, “She was picked at random, a delivery girl, and this is just a piece of the puzzle.”

Shraeger stared at him. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” he said, a little too quickly for her liking. He opened the door but lingered a moment longer. Shraeger thought he wanted to say something else. Then he shook his head as if to clear it. To Cynthia, he said, “I’ll get an evidence bag for the cat, and we’ll let you know when we find something.”

 

* * *

 

“So you’re not really pregnant,” Delahoy said. He sat knee to knee with Monica in a pair of excruciatingly uncomfortable chairs in the front lobby of one Doctor Glenn Kinslow, MD, FACS.

“No, I am,” she said. “It’s not just a clever ploy to get you here.”

Delahoy tittered.

“Doctor Kinslow is a very good neurosurgeon.”

“He must be. He has FACS behind his name,” Delahoy said. “What does that even mean?”

Monica ignored him. She said, “I sent your MRI ahead—”

“You said it was incomplete.”

“It is. But he’ll have something to go on. I also ordered the transfer of your previous medical records from Dr. Keyser, so that Kinslow could get a clearer prognosis.”

He stammered.

She said, “That’s the power I wield.”

Delahoy tugged at his damp coat which clung wetly to his legs and to the chair. He fussed with the sleeves and then with his tie, and finally, he gave up, and got to his feet. “I don’t want this,” he said.

Monica stared up at him. She was small and bird-like in her dove gray jacket and white pantsuit. She wore tiny black loafers on her tiny feet, and city street grime spattered the hem of her pants. Her hair feathered along her jaw, seeming to accentuate her tough, determined little mouth. She didn’t say anything, though; she just continued to watch him with her dark, serious eyes.

“That’s really off-putting, you know?” he said.

“You’ve come this far, Eric,” she said. “Why not go the rest of the way?”

He dropped back into the chair. “So many directions to go with that question.” He laughed, nervously. “You know?”

She nodded.

“Huh, you had so much to say back at the restaurant, and now you’re all with the cryptic. You’re like a fortune cookie.”

And she smiled. Actually smiled.

In the short time he’d known her, he couldn’t recall a single time he’d witnessed that particular phenomenon. It brought him up short. For a moment, he stepped out of the black irony of his own life and looked down at hers. Here she was, maybe thirty, recently unemployed, horribly lonely, given that two months ago she had desperate supply closet sex with an almost complete stranger who was, in all likelihood, a terminal cancer patient, and with whom she may or may not have conceived a child.

Yeah, he had to admit, her plight was as black as his. Hell, it was worse. He’d made it worse. All this came from a tiny error on her part, which he’d exploited, and she was just trying to help.

Point of fact, she was _still_ trying to help. But, why?

That question stood on the tip of his tongue, when the interior door opened and a nurse stepped into the lobby. “Eric Delahoy?” she said.

His stomach pitched like a ship on rough sea. He was doing this. Really going through with this. On the other side of that door was a Doctor who had seen his MRI and held the answers to the questions Eric Delahoy had fought so hard to avoid.

He couldn’t move. Then he remembered the fortune cookie stuffed in his pocket from lunch, the one he’d hastily grabbed from the table as Monica dragged him out to the street. 

“Just a second,” he told the nurse. He fished the cookie from his pocket and placed it in Monica’s hands. “Hang on to that for me, okay?”

She said, “It’s a—”

“—I know it is.” He chuckled. “Look at that.”

Monica cupped it in her hands. She said, “I’ll be waiting when you get out.”

Delahoy straightened. The urge to run still tore at him, a constant, shrill, insistent banshee of a voice. He clenched his hands and followed the nurse into the office.

 

* * *

 

Leo Banks drifted into the Second Precinct. He made it to his desk and collapsed into his chair. He stared blankly at Delahoy’s empty spot across from him.

“Hey, you okay?” Cole said, and Banks almost fell out of the seat.

“Sorry,” Cole said. “Sorry. Where’s—?”

Banks shook his head. He said, “He, um... had a date?”

“Oh,” Cole said. “Oh. Does that mean he’ll have a plus one for the wedding? ’Cause Amy’s giving the final number to the caterer this afternoon.”

“I, uh, really don’t know,” Banks answered. “Sergeant Brown in his office?”

Cole frowned. “With Alvarez.”

“Jeeez—suh, sorry,” Banks said.

“That’s all right, I understand,” Cole said. He leaned forward and whispered, “It’s not Christianly to gossip, but for reasons unbeknownst to me, Alvarez has got it in for us. He’s been keeping track of all the time Beaumont and I spend on our phones—”

Banks was shaking his head. He said, “You know, I knew Eric had been seeing her. I mean, he mentioned it, once—”

And Cole said, “I been plannin’ a weddin’, and that’s maybe not the most professional use of my time –  I realize this – but Beaumont’s phone usage has only ever been above the board—”

“—But the brain thing,” Banks said. “I mean, ‘the size of a Toyota,’ she said. How could he not bring _that_ up now and then?”

Cole stared at him, puzzled. “Did you say brain thing?”

“Brain thing,” Banks said. He hadn’t realized he was talking out loud. “Uh. Yeah, you know, Alvarez, he’s gotta have something to bitch about.” Leo felt a flare of anger churn up inside him. “Alvarez,” he said dully. “With his perfect wife and perfect house and his list of _perfect_ commendations. Alvarez, with his sparkling future all laid out for him like a string of jewels. Where the hell does he get off?” Banks glanced at Cole. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s all right,” Cole said, eyeing him warily.

“You know what?” Banks said. “Alvarez wants something to bitch about. I say we give it to him. I say, Eddie Alvarez needs a distraction.”

This intrigued Cole. “Yeah, like what?”

“Well—” Banks hadn’t thought that far ahead. He was grasping at loose synapses, especially since his mind had been thoroughly Ginsu’d at lunch.

But then he saw it. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Alvarez’s cell in the middle of his desk. Banks scurried over, snatched the phone, and brought it back. “You don’t have to be part of this,” he said. “Plotting revenge isn’t very Christian.”

“Right,” Cole said, returning to his desk.

Banks opened his desk drawer, where he kept rolls and rolls of foam rubber and duct tape. “He wants to mess with us, huh?” Banks muttered as he peeled off a long, curly strip of foam. “Like we haven’t got stuff going on in our lives? Like we don’t have enough crap to contend with, he feels he needs to add to it. Well, maybe this will keep him busy enough to leave us the hell alone.”

Cole swiveled back. “What the heck. I instigated. May as well bear witness.”

“There’s a man,” Banks said. “Now pass me them scissors.”

Turns out, it’s what Leo needed, too: A distraction. Until Delahoy came back to explain himself, Banks needed to keep his mind healthily occupied in the task of inconveniencing their co-worker. He ripped off a strip of tape and patiently began to mummify Eddie Alvarez’s phone.

 

* * *

 

_It’s finally happened, Second Squad. I met the man of my dreams. He’s a fictional character in a paranormal romance, but, hey, I’m determined to make it work._

Beaumont pushed the guy in the trout suit into the holding cell and rattled the door closed.

“Hey look,” Banks said to Cole. “Now it’s a fish tank.”

Fish guy crouched in the corner and covered his ears with his fins.

She turned to find them both grinning like a pair of Cheshire cats, and she knew there was more to it than the prospect of an afternoon of fish puns.

“What are you two up to?” she asked.

“Nothin’,” Cole said.

“Nothing,” Banks repeated.

“Riiight.”

The Sergeant came in, then, trailing a hangdog Alvarez. Alvarez picked up his coat and scurried off again without a word.

“Banks, where’s Delahoy?” the Sergeant snapped.

“Uh. He had an appointment,” Banks said. “Said he’d be back in a bit.”

“Good,” Sergeant Brown said. “Just caught a case, a snatch-and-grab in Chelsea. I need you two on that.”

“Yes, sir, right away,” Banks said.

Banks and Cole exchanged a look as the Sergeant returned to his office.

Beaumont folded her arms. “Okay, what’s going on?”

At that moment, a four-inch brick of duct tape began to vibrate on Alvarez’s desk. It moved in a sluggish circle like a remote controlled car running low on battery.

Cole tried to hide his smile. Banks said, “Ooh, I hope that’s not an important call.”

Beaumont laughed, both amused and incredulous. “Is that his _phone_?”

It stopped buzzing. Cole said, “It’s all right. They’ll call back.”

Banks patted his coat pockets and pulled out his own phone. He was muttering to himself as he dialed Delahoy’s number. “Appointment, date, whatever, you need to get back here and explain what’s going on, oh, and by the way, we have a case...”

The call went to voicemail. Leo shook his head. He was still shaking his head as he went to the front desk to pick up his case file.

Cole turned to Beaumont. “So where are we with Catch of the Day?”

“I’d like to reel him in for a few questions,” she said, grinning. “If you can spare a few minnows.”

Trout guy said, “This is the worst day of my life.”

Beaumont stepped closer to Cole and whispered, “Remember that robbery in Boston five months ago? Six guys dressed as mariachi?”

“Yeah,” Cole said. He darted a look at the fish. “Four of ’em got away.”

She inclined her head.

“You think he’s connected?” Cole whispered back.

“Like a worm on a hook,” she answered.

Cole’s eyes lit up. “Then let’s land ’im.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m racking my brain, here,” Walsh said. “I don’t think that number is Pi or whatever. I think it’s something else. Something closer.”

“Like an address,” Shraeger suggested.

“No,” Walsh said. His brow clouded.

A couple of hours canvassing around Delancey yielded nothing. Nobody had seen anyone in a ski mask that morning, and the security camera at Delancey Produce caught nothing. They’d sent the photos of Cynthia Patronelli’s hand to the graphology specialist and were discussing the possibility of grabbing Beaumont and Cole for a quick lunch when Sergeant Brown met them on the stairs.

“Your guy’s at it again,” Brown said. “The handwriting mugger. Victim’s at Memorial with a head wound.”

“He did the same thing?” Shraeger asked. “Wrote a message in someone’s palm?”

“Get down there. Check it out. This guy’s moving fast,” Brown said. He continued down the stairs a few steps, then turned back. “Oh, and Walsh. I talked to Alvarez. We need to have a meeting. Soon.”

“Yes, sir,” Walsh said.

Shraeger waited until Brown was unfurling his umbrella and heading out the door before turning to Walsh. “That sounded serious. What’s up?”

“It’s not,” Walsh said. “If it was, we’d be meeting now. C’mon.”

They started back down the steps.

Shraeger said, “But Alvarez is—”

“—a climber,” Walsh said. “He’s taken it upon himself to keep tabs on us, to distinguish himself. So I’ve decided...” he opened the door and they stepped out into the rain. “To help him out.”

“You’re helping Alvarez?” Shraeger said. They darted to the car.

As Shraeger buckled into the passenger seat, Walsh cranked the engine. “It’s not a tough nut to crack here,” he said. “He wants to climb. We want him off our backs. I figure, Why not help a guy out?”

“What does Sarge think?” Shraeger asked.

“Well, he’s listening, so that’s something.” Walsh said. He angled them into traffic, and they headed uptown.

 

* * *

 

_It hadn’t gone so bad._

These were the first words to cross Eric Delahoy’s mind as he re-buttoned his shirt in Dr. Kinslow’s office.

Kinslow was young-ish, with bushy eyebrows and a potato-shaped head. Blue eyes. Probably Irish. A picture of his wife and kids propped on the counter. Three kids, all blue-eyed, all with potato heads. Delahoy was receiving life-changing advice from Dr. Potato Head.

Kinslow blathered on about support groups and time lines. He used frightening words like anaplastic and edema and oligoastrocytomas. He mentioned hospice. He scheduled a follow up appointment for the following week. He shook Delahoy’s hand, and he thought, _See. Not so bad_.

Then he went back out into the lobby. He stood before Monica, who stared up at him, still holding the fortune cookie as if it might break.

“Well?” she said.

“Well,” he said. “I have a brain tumor.” A smile twitched at his lips.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He asked if I have my affairs in order.”

Monica’s face was blank. She said, “Eric, I’m so sor—”

“—My affairs are in disorder. Extreme... disorder. My affairs are the French Revolution meets Watergate with J. Edgar Hoover at the wheel. They’re a catastrophe. So I’m thinking,” he said. “Let’s get married.”

Her voice dropped an octave. “What?”

“Sure,” he said. “Don’t you wanna be Doctor Delahoy?”

Monica’s eyes flicked a panicked look at the door.

“Hey, I’m kidding,” Delahoy said. “Mostly kidding.” He shrugged. “Actually, no. I’m not kidding.”

“We should probably—”

“—Why shouldn’t we get married? You’re carrying my kid. I’m dying. What could be more perfect?”

“He said you’re dying?”

Eric felt his shoulders relax, like he was settling into a new coat. A heavy, ill-fitting new coat, but still...

He’d said it out loud. He _was_ dying. He thought again, _It wasn’t so bad_. Then he thought, _Of course it’s bad. It’s the worse news of my life. I’m dying!_

“Eric?”

The others in the lobby glanced uncomfortably at them. Eric wiped at his eyes. “Did I say any of that out loud?”

“Yes.”

“How much of it?”

She shrugged.

“Right,” he nodded. “So, hey. Let’s get food.”

"Okay.”

“A date, okay?”

Monica swallowed. “Okay.” She pocketed the fortune cookie and took his hand.

“Yeah,” he said. “We’ll save that for later.”

 

* * *

 

Lupe Carbajal glowered from the edge of his hospital bed. Beside him, his wife fussed over a hospital gown that stretched over his paunch, and he weathered her attention the way a bear might tolerate a swarm of bees. Gauze turbanned his balding head, and the wires from a heart monitor tethered him in place. Otherwise, Shraeger was sure he would have bolted the first time the nurses’ heads were turned.

“I’d just gone down to the john,” Carbajal was saying. “I’m a coffee and bran muffin kind a guy. Loretta does good by me,” he patted his wife’s shoulder. “I got a heart condition, she makes sure I eat right. So it was my regular time a day, y’know what I mean?”

Walsh nodded. Shraeger concealed a sneer. Carbajal’s wife caressed his hairy forearm.

“We got this port-o-john on site. I went in and when I came out – bam – guy clipped me with a pipe.” Carbajal touched the spot on his forehead and winced.

His wife said, “Lupe, stop messing with it!”

He rolled his eyes. “Guy had a good arm, too. One hit, next thing I knew, I’m staring into a rain puddle.”

Shraeger said, “Did you get a good look at your attacker, Mr. Carbajal?”

Carbajal’s mouth puckered. “Yeah, I saw him, but he was wearin’ a mask, like uh, like Spiderman.”

“The superhero?” Walsh asked.

“Yeh. Like, red and blue – with stripes on it.”

Shraeger and Walsh exchanged a look.

“Then what happened?” Walsh prompted.

“Well, I ain’t ashamed to admit, I told the guy to take my stuff. We got three kids, Loretta and me. I ain’t about to die for the handful’a crap I got in my wallet. But he says he ain’t after nothing like that. He says, and I quote, ‘I’m just the messenger and you’re the message.’ He says, ‘There are bigger things than you an’ me.’ Then he wrote this on my hand—”

Carbajal extended his right hand. Along the length of the man’s stubby pointer finger, the attacker had written the number 2153.

“What’s that mean?” Loretta said. She huddled closer to her husband. “What kind of message?”

“That’s what we aim to find out, Ms. Carbajal,” Walsh said. “Now, after the attacker wrote this, did he do anything else?”

“Yeh,” Carbajal said. “He went through the pockets of my safety vest.” He gestured at the vest, which hung over the back of a chair.

“This vest?” Shraeger said. “Mind if I—?”

“Not at all,” Carbajal said. “Waste a time anyway. I don’t keep anything in them pockets, but I just kept my mouth shut.”

Shraeger pulled on a latex glove and turned out each pocket.

Walsh said, “You did right—”

“—Walsh,” Shraeger said. She pulled an object from an interior pocket and rolled it into her palm. It was a wooden pawn from a chess set, painted a dull silver so that it looked like chrome.

“Hey, that ain’t mine,” Carbajal said. “How’d that get there?”

Walsh put his hands on his hips. He said, “We’re gonna find that out, too.”

 

* * *

 

Back in the car, Walsh said, “Okay, let’s run this all down.”

Shraeger said, “Cynthia Patronelli, 19, student, attacked at 7 a.m. Guy writes the number 314 in her palm, leaves her a cat figurine.”

“Then, Lupe Carbajal, 48, construction worker, attacked at 11:45. Guy writes 2153 on his finger. Leaves him a pawn from a chess set,” Walsh said.

“Neither victim reports any suspicious activity around their homes. There’s no apparent connection between them except for this masked attacker,” Shraeger said. “Who may or may not have been dressed as Spiderman.”

Walsh drummed the steering wheel with his thumbs. “Patronelli admitted she didn’t get a clear look at the mask. But it’s definitely the same guy. The handwriting—”

“—it’s the same. Don’t need a graphologist to tell us that.”

 “So what’s the connection?” Walsh asked.

 “Well, you mentioned earlier you thought he’d make another move,” Shraeger said.

 “And a pawn, that’s a definite move.”

 “You think he’s playing chess?” Shraeger asked.

He shrugged. “We’ll see if we can get a print off that piece, but I’m betting he’s sharper than that. The numbers and figures mean something, though.” Walsh squared his shoulders. His jaw tightened.

“You don’t like this, do you?” Shraeger said.

“He’s leading us,” Walsh answered. “Where else would he lead us except a trap?”

Shraeger opened her mouth to respond, but then closed it again. She considered for a long while as Walsh meandered through the rain-hampered lunch time traffic. Then she said, “Okay. We have two minor assaults that were, at first glance, meant to look like muggings—”

This drew a sharp look from Walsh. She understood; the assault on his girlfriend all those years ago had also been meant to look like a mugging.

But then he shook his head, so she went on. “—In each case, the attacker writes a number and leaves an object. Maybe he doesn’t injure them too severely because he wants them to be able to talk.”

“They have to be able to deliver the message,” Walsh said.

“Do you think—” She rolled her eyes. “—Is it a message for us? I mean, the police, us. Not us _us_.”

“I do,” Walsh said. He flicked a look in the rearview mirror. “A phone number, maybe? 314-2153?”

“There’s no area code, but we’ll get a list of phones registered with that number within the area.”

Walsh pulled into the parking lot of the Second Precinct. “Yeah, let’s do that,” he said.

Shraeger’s phone rang, then, and she was embarrassed that it startled her, just a little.

“It’s just Davis,” she told Walsh. He saw that she was rattled, too; Walsh was just better at hiding it. She had to admit she was with him on this – this case gave her the creeps.

 

* * *

 

Davis slid into the booth of Noodles! Noodles! and folded his coat on the seat beside him. For a moment, he stared at the top of Casey’s head as she puzzled over the menu.

Upon closer inspection, he saw it was not a menu but a case file.

Without looking up, she said, “I ordered us spring rolls and tea. Oolong.”

“Thanks, Casey,” he said. “Any chance I’ll see your face or am I dining with The Grudge?”

She glanced up, squinted at him, returned to her file. “Sorry,” she said. “You like Oolong, right?”

“Oolong is fine,” he said. “You’re upset.”

“Worried,” she said. “It’s this case. It’s—” She shook her hands. “—bleh, work. Let’s talk about you.”

“Today Mrs. Tuplantis told me she wants to cut her stepson from the will because he insists on wearing a wig and heels to their neighbor’s pool parties in the Hamptons,” Davis said.

“Harsh.” She smiled.

“Yes,” Davis said. “No yacht for Conrad until he grows up and decides to dress like a man. He’s forty, by the way.”

Casey laughed. “What does a forty-year-old cross-dresser need with a yacht anyway?”

“Exactly,” he said.  “Casey, I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh?”

The waitress brought their tea and spring rolls. When she asked if they were ready to order, Casey abruptly shooed her away.

Davis grinned. “The other night, when you stayed over...”

“That was a good night.”

“An even better morning,” he said.

“Wait. Wait,” Casey said. “I see where you’re going with this, and while I can say that I really like the idea, like I like your apartment and your coffee maker and the way you sing when you’re making breakfast—”

“—I... sing?—”

“—Old Boston songs. Adorable,” she said.

“But?”

“But I like it for the future,” she said. “Not yet. Not now.”

“I’m talking about the future, Casey,” Davis said. “I’m moving. In January.”

Casey blinked. “Moving? Moving where? Not out of the city—”

Davis laughed as if he could never consider it. Much to her relief. “No,” he said. “I bought a place from a client. It’s on 6th, just below the park. It’s one of those obnoxiously expensive places where all the snooty rich people live.”

Casey pursed her lips. “You wanna live where all the snooty rich people live?”

“It’s a beautiful place.”

“There are lots of beautiful, reasonable places.”

“You should see the view from the balcony.”

“It has a _balcony_?” Casey opened her menu. “I mean, my place is nice, comfortable, modest. I have a view of a brick wall, but, y’know, it’s... cozy.”

“Do you even know your neighbors?” he asked.

“I know Mr. Delano,” she said.

“Is he the guy in the novelty apron with the strategically-placed hot peppers?”

“No, that’s Mr. Bergdorf. Mr. Delano walks around with the plunger and the rubber gloves.”

“Right,” Davis said. “The guy who yells.”

“My building is charming,” Casey said. “You gonna order or what?”

Davis suppressed a smile and scanned his menu.

After a moment, Casey said, “You remember I mentioned my friend Cole’s wedding on the 24th?”

“I remember.”

“You’re gonna be my date.”

“Can I wear my top hat?”

“You have a top hat?”

“I _am_ filthy rich.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Next time I’m at your place, I’m wearing the top hat.”

Davis eyed her sidelong.

“And nothing else,” Casey whispered.

“Deal.”

“And the wedding?”

“I’m in.”

“Then let’s eat.”

 

* * *

 

Leo Banks smoothed raindrops from his pants legs. He squeezed into a kind of cramped breakfast nook piled high with sewing scraps, magazines, and bits of old jewelry. The victim of the snatch-and-grab lilted around the kitchen, pouring tea and arranging cookies on a plate, her patchwork skirt streaming out behind her. She was early 20s, blond, and sported more tattoos than the cast of the _Sons of Anarchy_ , what Eric would call an “earthy” girl.

Banks checked his phone again. No message from Eric. No response to his texts, ditto on the calls. Banks was beyond worried now. He’d moved into full-blown anxiety. He’d already decided to interview this girl and swing by Eric’s place to check on him.

This whole situation unnerved him. It was against protocol for Banks to interview this woman _alone_ in her house, but with Alvarez constantly peeking at their logs, Banks felt he had to cover for Delahoy on this one. Actually, now that he thought about it, he’d been covering for Delahoy a lot lately...

“Do you take stevia, honey, or agave in your tea?” the girl asked.

“Uh. None, thanks,” he answered. “So Miss...” Banks checked his notepad. “Harper.”

“Harper’s my first name,” she said over her shoulder. “You know, like the author?”

“Right,” he said. “So, Miss...?”

“Wrenway.” She brought the tray and stacked it on the cluttered table.

“Miss Wrenway,” Banks said, scribbling that into his notes. “Report says you had a computer inside a suitcase and someone snatched it?”

She bit her lip. “It wasn’t a computer,” she admitted. “It was a Golden Retriever. You have nice hands.”

Banks stammered, “Uh – Golden Retriever?”

Miss Wrenway sat back and held her mug between her hands. “I’ve been house sitting for friends who are in Bangkok on business. They had this dog, Elsie, and she was old, really old, like 119 in dog years. I was nervous about caring for her, but they assured me she was just fine.”

“But she wasn’t fine?” Banks guessed.

“No, she died Sunday night.” She sipped her tea.

“It’s Tuesday,” he said.

“I know.” She grimaced. “I didn’t know what to do. I wrapped her in some sheets and waited until it was morning in Thailand to call them. They said not to worry, they’d already made plans for her eventual passing, so they gave me the vet’s address in Chelsea.”

“Oh,” Banks said. He was beginning to see where the story was going.

“Elsie was a big dog, Detective Banks,” Wrenway went on. “She weighed, like, eighty pounds. I couldn’t afford to take a taxi all the way to Chelsea, but how was I going to carry this eighty-pound dog on the subway?”

“So you put it in a suitcase...”

“Exactly. It was on wheels and had a handle.” She gave him a thin smile. “So then, this guy on the subway struck up a conversation, guess he thought I was a tourist because he mentioned the suitcase. Well, I couldn’t tell him there was a dead dog inside. So I said, ‘No, it’s a computer. I’m moving it for a friend.’”

“Oh dear,” Banks said.

“I should’ve known. Soon as the train stopped, off he went—”

“—And somewhere in New York, a fence is opening a case containing one deceased canine.” He chuckled.

“Oh, it’s terrible,” she said, trying not to laugh. “You think you’ll be able to recover it? My friends love that dog. I mean they did love her. They made arrangements for her burial.”

“Well,” Banks said. “We’ll do what we can. I’ll get a description of the bag and the guy who grabbed it.”

She was staring at his hands again.

He said, “Miss Wrenway?”

“Sorry. _Sorry_.” She set her cup aside. “I read palms. I could do yours, if you like.”

Banks considered. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I got some place I have to be. But thank you. Another time, maybe?”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll just, um, tell you about the guy...”

Through the rest of the interview, the girl kept glancing at his hands, and Leo grew more and more uneasy, and wished, for the thousandth time, that Delahoy was there.

 

* * *

 

The door to Monica Crumb’s had swelled in its frame. She flounced against it, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Here, let me,” Delahoy said. He shouldered into it. It squawked, but held firm.

“It warps when it rains,” Monica apologized.

“I see that,” he said. He slammed into it again. The wood groaned, but stuck. He decided on steady pressure, then, and, gripping the handle, he gave it a good steady push.

She looked worried.

“It’s all right, I do this sort of thing all the time,” he said.

“I’m concerned you’ll break my door,” she told him. “I can’t afford a replacement.”

He smiled through the strain. “Right,” he said. Then, with a pop, it opened.

“Milady.”

She minced in, moving quickly through the dimly-lit studio, toeing books and scarves and – _dishes?_ – under the velvet settee that crouched in her front room. Eric scratched his head as he followed behind her. She deposited their take-out on a tottery antique table, then turned to him, sweeping her arms wide.

“So, here it is,” she said. Then she hugged her arms to her body and bit her lip. “You’re my first visitor.”

“That’s... really?”

She nodded.

He gazed around the dark, cramped space, and nodded appreciatively. She had an impressive number of fairly weighty books piled on makeshift shelves. Several half-melted candles dripped from the squat mantle in her living room. Another low table was stacked with colorful glass bottles and brass figurines. In the corner, he followed the rungs of a questionable looking ladder to the semi-attached loft where he assumed she must sleep.

“So, this is what they call Gothic in all the guidebooks,” he said. “You sure you’re not the understudy to a guy named Igor?”

There it was again, that smile. It winked out before he was sure he’d seen it, but he found himself watching her, looking for another wisp of it to appear.

“I have wine,” she said, going to her pantry, no smile now. “Someone has to drink it.”

She began to struggle then with the corkscrew. It may have been the cutest thing he’d ever seen, even if it did border on pathetic.

“Here, let me,” he said, snatching it from her.

She relinquished the task gratefully and hurried to get the plates and glasses. “We can eat on the fire escape,” she said. “I have a nice view of the river. Take off your coat.”

“Sure.” He peeled off his damp trench and draped it over the back of her settee. “How long you lived here?”

“Three years,” she said. She passed him a plate of Szechwan beef, a glass of wine, and chopsticks.

“And I’m the first visitor?”

“Everyone who knows me is related to me, so I see them at my parents’ house in Newark,” she explained. She led him to the window that opened to the fire escape. She set her plate on the radiator and heaved up the sash. It shrieked like nails on a chalkboard, sending a fresh stab of pain between his eyes. “Sorry,” she said.

He blinked back tears. “It’s fine.” He waved her on. “Go, go.”

“Okay.” She climbed onto the fire escape, where she had two milk crates arranged around an empty wire spool. He passed her plate through, then joined her. He glanced up to find a canvas awning stretched above them, sheltering them from the rain.

A wide sweep of the river spread out before them, dotted with tugs and tankers and ferries. At night, the view probably went for spectacular.

“So this is your spot?” he said.

Monica had shoveled in a mouthful of noodles, so she nodded fervently.

“Good spot,” he said. “See what you mean about the river. Aren’t you afraid a seagull might come pick you off? I’ve seen some big as bicycles...”

She choked on her noodles. He grinned.

Food was still weird to him, so he picked at his Szechwan beef. It was spicy, which helped, but it tasted the way cigarette smoke smells, so... not great.

Monica swallowed. After a moment, she said, “Can I tell you a secret?”

“You have another secret?”

“Yes.”

“This one as big as the last one?”

She stabbed at her noodles with the chopsticks. “Maybe?”

“Sure, you can tell me your secret,” Eric said. “I might not even blackmail you over it.”

“Promise?”

“Pinky swear.”

She drew a deep breath. He braced himself. She said, “I hate my job.”

“You – you hate your job? That’s your big secret?”

“Yes,” she said.

“But—”

“I’m _Asian_!” she said.

“I noticed.”

“My parents wanted me to go into medicine,” she said. “But I have zero bedside manner—”

“—This I also noticed.”

She shrugged. “And I’m good at the forensic part, the whole puzzle of death, you know?”

“Sure, yeah, death’s puzzle.”

“But I hated the paperwork and the odd hours and the smell and then one night, it came to me, the truth of it all...”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“That we all end up in body bags,” she said.

He chuckled dryly. “There’s a romantic sentiment.”

“Sorry—”

“Nah, don’t be,” he said. “Dying, remember? Anyway, it’s not unlike my job.”

“But don’t you _hate_ it?” she asked.

A faint glimmer lit his eyes. “No,” he said. “Sure, long hours, odd smells, and the paperwork, what’s to like about those? But I love the job. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to be a cop. I mean, back in high school, I was the guy who – who kept everyone on the crosswalk, who took everyone’s keys at the parties. Like Lloyd Dobler. I _was_ Lloyd Dobler.”

“I don’t know who that is,” she said.

“What?” He sniffed. “Lloyd Dobler. _Say Anything_.” She nibbled a wonton and shook her head. “80s flick, _In Your Eyes_ on the boom box? No?”

“No.”

“What are you, fifteen?”

“I’m 28,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Meaning you were born in 1981; there is no excuse.”

“Yes, I was born in 81. In _Korea_ ,” she said.

“Fine, you get the pass. But we’re making a list: Things you should see. Fundamental things. Also, things I wanna see, you know, one last time.”

She poked through her noodles.

He said, “ _The Longest Yard_ , definitely. _The Goonies_. _E.T_. – No, not _E. T._ Too depressing. _The Shining_. _Lethal Weapon_.” He trailed off, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Buddy cops,” she said. “Oh.” Then, her voice careful and quiet, Monica asked, “Eric, are you here with me because you’re avoiding your friend?”

He brought his hands together. “No... _No_.” Then, “Probably, yes.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“Nobody knows,” Eric said. “’Cept us. _We_ know.”

She set her plate aside. “What were you going to do? Wait until your brain was riddled with cancerous holes, until you lost control of your major organs and your body finally gave out on you?”

“You paint a real bleak picture, you know that?” he snapped.

Her shoulders sagged. He felt even more wretched. But she was right.

He sighed. “I have to tell him.”

“You should,” she agreed.

“I don’t know how,” he said. His throat threatened to close, but he forced himself to continue. “He’s my karass.”

“He’s your _what_?” Monica asked. She looked cautiously alarmed.

“Karass,” he explained, trying not to laugh at her expression. “It’s—it’s like family, but more the people you know. Your friends. Your co-workers. People who keep popping up in your life. You, for example. You’re my karass, too. We’re karass.”

“It sounds horrible,” she said. Then hastily added, “The word, not the concept.”

“Yeah yeah,” he said. “I could fall for you, y’know? I mean, if things in my life weren’t like a slow motion plane crash—”

She eyed him sidewise. “You’re crazy.”

“I’m dying,” he said. “C’mon. You’re exactly my type.”

Again, she seemed to sag into herself. A dejected kind of sigh. “I’m nobody’s type.”

“That’s not true.” Eric touched her hair.

She angled away from him, and then pulled the fortune cookie from her pocket. She passed it to him; a peace offering.

“Now?” he asked.

She nodded, gravely.

“Okay,” he said. “Here goes.”

He cracked it open. Read it. Re-read it. Laughed. “ _Your greatest ally is your own mind_ ,” he said aloud. He sniffed. “I think this one must be yours.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Maybe it’s ours?”

He passed her half the cookie and popped his half in his mouth. It tasted like canned tomato paste. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it is.”

 

* * *

 

“Can I get you anything?” Beaumont asked. “Water?”

She smiled at Cole. Cole smiled back. Across the table, the fish stared down at his fins. He looked miserable. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and every time he moved the rubber of his suit made embarrassing squelchy noises.

“Look,” he told them. “I didn’t even mean to rob that store.”

“Someone put you up to it?” Cole asked.

“No, nothing like that,” the fish said.

Beaumont said, “Then what was it like, Gil? Mind if I call you Gil?”

“My name’s Luis.”

“I like Gil,” Beaumont said.

“Marlin’s good, too,” Cole said. “We would call ’im that.”

“Marlin’s a game fish. He doesn’t really look like a Marlin...”

Luis the fish threw up his fins. “For the last time, I’m a _trout_. And my name’s Luis. And will you please stop with the damn fish jokes?”

“Oh, look, Cole, he’s starting to flounder,” Beaumont said.

“Just so long as he doesn’t keel over,” Cole said.

Luis touched his fins to his forehead. He said, “Here’s how it went down, okay. I just got this job at Immanuel’s Fish Market. My boss is a funny guy, thought we’d sell more fish if I wore a costume and waved at people on the street—”

“—Waved,” Cole said, chuckling.

“Nice,” Beaumont agreed.

Luis ignored them. “I went into the liquor store for a pack of cigarettes, and the guy behind the counter totally wigged. He practically threw the money at me. Then he said he had a gun. What was I supposed to do? I ran!”

“What were you _supposed to_ _do_?” Beaumont balked.

“Probably not take the money,” Cole added.

Beaumont nodded. “Might’ve been wise. Yeah.”

Luis was shaking his head. “Next thing I knew police were chasing me through Times Square.”

Cole touched Beaumont’s arm. “They brought out the big net.”

“It was a good haul,” Beaumont said. Then she turned serious. “See, Gil, we already read all that here in our report. But certain things just don’t line up, if you catch my drift.”

Luis looked from Cole to Beaumont then back. “What things?”

“This isn’t your first arrest, is it, Gil?” Beaumont asked.

“No,” Luis said.

Beaumont opened the file and began to lay out a number of files between them. “Drunk and disorderly. Illegal possession of a hand gun. Theft by check. Forgery—”

“Holy mackerel, Luis,” Cole said. “Forgery?”

“Look, I used to run with a bad crowd, but I— I’ve changed. I got a job and everything. I know it’s a dumb job. I wear a fish suit, for Christ’s sake, but it brings in money, and I’m trying to go straight.” Luis sat back in his chair. His lower lip trembled, like he was about to cry. “Look, I swear.”

Beaumont turned to Cole. “You believe this guy?”

“I’m bitin’,” Cole said.

Beaumont gave him a surreptitious wink.

“I swear,” Luis said again.

“This bad crowd you ran with,” Beaumont said. “Were they by any chance interested in, say... Mexican music?”

Luis grew suddenly very still.

There was a knock on the door. Beaumont sent a questioning look at Cole, who responded with the barest of shrugs.

As she got up to answer it, she said, “Take your time. _Mullet_ over.” She opened the door wide enough for Alvarez to put his face in.

“You seen my phone?” Alvarez asked.

“You check your desk?” Beaumont snapped.

“Yes,” Alvarez answered.

“Well, I haven’t seen it,” she said.

“Cole—?”

“—is in the middle of an interrogation,” Beaumont said, carefully slicing out each syllable.

“Right. Of course. As you were.” Alvarez pulled the door closed, and Beaumont returned to the table.

“See,” Cole was saying. “In this scenario, you’re the little fish—”

“—And the guys you know, your Boston friends,” Beaumont said. “They’re big fish. We can work a deal here...”

“Kind of a – bait and switch kind of deal?” Luis said hopefully.

“Look at that, Cole.” Beaumont smiled. “Now he’s speaking our language.”

 

* * *

 

Leo Banks held the address for Dr. Monica Crumb on a slip of paper between his fingers. After he swung by Delahoy’s place and found it empty, Banks began to get desperate, but getting Crumb’s information had been simple enough. She was next on his list to contact. He’d done some of the leg work on the Golden Retriever case and was waiting on some calls, but it was clear that it would be a long night.

 _Another_ long night.

Right now, he had another call to make. He pressed his phone to his ear while he waited for it to connect. Alvarez came up and tapped on Banks’ desk.

“You seen my phone?” Alvarez asked.

Banks swiveled his chair to face the wall as Bridget Demopolis answered on the other end.

Banks said, “Hey, Bridge. Hey – No. No. I’m—” he flicked the paper with his thumb. “I’m not gonna make it tonight.” He listened for a minute before cutting back in. “Yeah, no. It’s – No, it’s Delahoy. He’s MIA.” Another pause. “No, it’s like him. It’s _very_ like him. But – yeah – yes. I know. Thanks. Hm-mm, you too. Bye.”

As he hung up, he turned to find Delahoy in the doorway, looking rumpled and contrite.

Banks made a series of miffled noises.

Delahoy said, “Hey.”

“Hey?” Banks exploded. “Missing five hours, and you say, _Hey_? We have a case—”

“Calm down,” Delahoy said quietly. “Your eyes are doing that buggy thing. It’s creepy.”

“Oh, calm down, he says, you disappear after lunch, and Dr. Crumb’s all like—”

“—Leo,” Delahoy shouted. “We need to talk.” 

Banks froze mid-erratic-gesture. He said, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Not here,” Delahoy said. “Get your coat.”

“Sure thing,” Banks said.

 

* * *

 

Walsh was on hold with the lab when Banks and Delahoy left. Across from him, Shraeger spoke with a dispatcher who received a call about a suspicious figure wearing a ski mask.

Alvarez hovered near them, attempting several times to get their attention, but they doggedly ignored him.

“Green?” Shraeger said. Walsh, frustrated, tapped his pen on the desk. Shraeger said, “No, no thanks. Our guy is blue and red. More Spiderman, less Ninja Turtle. But thanks again, and let us know if you get anything else.”

“Walsh,” Alvarez said.

“Not now, Eddie,” Walsh snapped. Alvarez held up his hands and headed off to the break room.

“What was that about, with Delahoy and Banks?” Shraeger asked.

“Lover’s spat?” Walsh offered.

She nodded, like, _That’s fair_. “Any luck with the lab?”

“Been on hold for—” he checked his watch “—eighteen minutes.”

Shraeger blew out a sigh. “I’ve got a lot of phone work, too. Did you know there are 314 area codes in the United States?”

“Well there’s a creepy coincidence,” Walsh asked.

“Oh yeah,” she said, plucking at the printout on her desk. “I’ve got all of the greater metropolitan area plus New Jersey here. Gonna be a long night. But the report came in on the cat figurine. No prints, just like you thought, but they say it’s part of a set.”

“Yeah?” Walsh asked. “Like... bookends?”

“It’s the rook of a chess board,” Shraeger said.

Sergeant Brown entered and cut across the office like a storm cloud. He leaned over their desks and said, in a heavy, quiet voice, “Your guy again. Victim found at Greenwich and Houston.”

Walsh ended his phone call. “Handwriting?” he asked.

“Worse,” the Sergeant said.

“You said the victim was _found_?” Shraeger asked.

“He’s in the morgue,” the Sergeant said.

“That’s not our guy’s MO,” she said.

“His MO has escalated,” Sergeant Brown told her. “Get down to the morgue. Check it out, but keep it quiet, huh? This one’s just turned ugly.”

“Yes sir,” Walsh said, and he and Shraeger headed out as well.

 

* * *

 

They entered the morgue to find a young blond man pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He was scruffy in the way of table-top role players, the kind who lives in a basement apartment far from sunlight and subsists on pizza, ramen, and Mountain Dew. He wore a crisp white lab coat and horn-rim glasses. The pin on his lapel read, “Ask me about Zombies!” The body he was about to examine lay beneath a sheet on the metal table, its long, pale feet jutting out at the far end. Instead of a toe tag, a red ribbon had been tied into a bow across the ball of the victim’s foot.

Walsh said, “Where’s Dr. Crumb?”

The man held up his gloved hands in lieu of a hand shake. “Yeah, Dr. Crumb’s been let go. I’m the new guy, Dr. Zimsky. They call me the Zed,” he said. He laughed.

Walsh merely stared at him. Shraeger scratched her ear.

“ _Pulp Fiction_ ,” Dr. Zimsky said. “Zed’s dead? Nothing?”

“Um, no,” Shraeger said. “What’s with the ribbon?”

“This place needs some color, dontcha think? I call it the Zimsky Effect. Just because there’s doom and gloom up in here, doesn’t mean we can’t inject a little fun. Amiright?”

“It’s a _morgue_ ,” Walsh said.

Zimsky whistled. “Tough crowd. You must be Detectives Shraeger and Walsh.”

Walsh pointed to the body. “That our handwriting victim?”

“Why, yes!” Zimsky said. “Under sheet number one, we have Ross Ryerson. ID lists him as forty-four, a Capricorn, and organ donor. Also, he’s survived by no one, so I’m checking dentals to confirm the man was who he said he was.”

Shraeger and Walsh exchanged an uncomfortable glance. Shraeger said, “Cause of death?”

Zimsky whipped the sheet back to reveal the body of Ross Ryerson and the quite obvious cause of death. “Gonna take a stab at pointy object to the heart,” Zimsky said.

Shraeger sucked air over her teeth. “Wow, that’s... impressive.”

She looked over at Walsh, who had whitened considerably. She turned back to the body and saw what she’d missed in all of the gaping chest wound.

Carved into the skin above the guy’s heart was a three digit number: 7-8-9.

“Walsh?” she said.

He swallowed thickly. “It’s a badge number,” he said.

“What? Wait. How do you know?”

He gripped the edge of the examining table and blew out a steadying breath. “I know,” he said, “Because it’s Kowalski’s.”

END OF PART ONE


	2. The Zimsky Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Hand Writing Mugger turns killer, Walsh and Shraeger scramble to decipher clues that lead them even closer to home. Banks continues to struggle with the reality of Delahoy's diagnosis.

**002 The Zimsky Effect**

_Listen up, Second Precinct, Christmas is only eight weeks away. Just FYI, I’m interested in Eastern Philosophy, vintage waffle irons, and my sweater size is six petite_.

Eddie Alvarez returned to his desk. No one was in the main office now, except for Officer Maynard and Sergeant Brown. He knew Cole and Beaumont were interrogating Mr. Fish. Banks and Delahoy were off on the Chelsea snatch-and-grab case. Walsh and Shraeger were clocking time on the Hand Writing Mugger.

Eddie Alvarez took out his file in his lap drawer. He noted the times and the cases. As he was replacing the folder, he noticed an odd oblong shape behind the frame photo of Nicole.

“What the—?” he began. He poked at it with a pencil, and just as he did, the shape began to vibrate. “It’s a bomb,” he whispered. “All right. Don’t panic. Evacuate.” Then, raising his voice, he yelled, “Attention, people! Everybody out! This is not a drill! Someone has planted a bomb in this office! Repeat, this is not a drill!”

* * *

The park was full of birds. Since the rain stopped, doves and cardinals ruffled through the lawns and sidewalks, flitting and fussing and scratching in the dirt.

Leo Banks watched them, wordless, while the birds picked at the earth.

“Man you gotta say... something,” Delahoy said.

“How long?” Banks said.

Delahoy smoothed his mustache. “I dunno.”

“Did you get a second opinion?” Banks asked.

“That was the second opinion,” he answered.

“No,” Banks said.

“No?”

“No. You—you’re thirty-seven.”

“Like that matters?”

“How can you be so calm about this? It’s your life—”

“—Yeah, it is—”

“—So... It’s 2009. We’re at the cutting edge of medicine,” Banks said. Delahoy was shaking his head; Banks went doggedly on. “Yes,” he said. “There are surgeries, treatments. Chemo. Radiation. Acupuncture?”

“No. None of that.”

“Why not?” Banks shouted.

“Because it is _my_ life,” Delahoy shouted back.

Banks leapt from the bench, scattering the birds into flight. He turned back to Delahoy, who was sitting with his elbows on his knees, looking up at him like he always did, like he thought his partner was just this side of Crazytown.

“ _How long_?” Banks asked again.

Delahoy shrugged.

“You have to know. The doctor must have said—”

“What do you want, a timeline? I just told you, I don’t know,” Delahoy said again.

“All right then, dead end.” Banks winced. Poor word choice. He sat back down. “What about this Dr. Crumb? What about the _other thing_ she said today at lunch?”

“The kid,” Delahoy said.

“Yeah, the ‘kid,’” Banks snapped. “You seen a test? You asked for proof?”

“What are you, sick?” Delahoy said. “First off, it’s Monica. And second, I’m not gonna do that—”

Banks threw up his hands. “Wh-? Why not?”

“Because,” Delahoy answered. “Because – and I’m asking in all seriousness – what could she possibly gain by lying?”

“Man, think about it,” Banks said. “She’s seen your MRI. She knows you’re – ill, or whatever. She’s out of a job. She coulda pulled your personnel file, seen that you live alone. She could be using you. I’m surprised she hasn’t proposed.”

Delahoy looked sheepish.

“Say you’re kidding me.”

“ _I_ ... may have offered,” he said.

“You did? Wh--?”

“She didn’t accept.”

“Eric, what are you thinking?”

Delahoy brought his hands together and stared at his thumbs. “I’m thinking I’m gonna have a half-Asian kid that I’m never gonna see.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

Banks got up again. “No,” he said.

“Again, no?”

“No. It’s not happening,” Banks said, walking away. “ _This_ isn’t happening. We have a case, a snatch-and-grab in Chelsea. I turned Alvarez’s phone into a duct tape briquette. _Those_ things are real. That’s what’s happening. This? This. It’s not—”

“—Leo—”

Banks raised a hand but didn’t turn back. “I’ll see you back at the precinct,” he said. He continued out of the park, still talking to himself, still gesturing wildly, until he rounded the corner and Delahoy could no longer see him.

“Well,” Delahoy said to no one. “That went well.”

* * *

Walsh and Shraeger stood in front of storage locker number 314.

“Kowalski’s storage locker,” Shraeger said.

“Yep. The number written on Cynthia Patronelli’s hand,” Walsh said. He blew out a breath. To the gangly day clerk, he said, “We’re gonna need rental records for this locker for the last year, going back to a Burt Kowalski.”

“Got it, sure,” the clerk said. She pushed her glasses back on her nose. “This is a programmable lock. We sell them here, and the renter then enters their own security code. Of course, I can cut the lock off for you...”

“Uh, we have the code,” Walsh said.

“Oh?” the clerk asked.

“Yes we do,” Shraeger answered.

Walsh’s face was set in grim lines. He palmed the lock and entered the four-digit code, which had been written on Lupe Carbajal’s index finger: 2153.

A green LED light flickered on the lock as the hasp popped up. He and Shraeger exchanged a look. He pulled a flashlight from his coat pocket.

“Stand back,” he told them as he pulled up the louvered gate.

The storage area had been scrubbed and repainted since their last visit. This time, instead of the charred remains of Kowalski’s hidden records, it was empty save for three brown file folders side by side in the middle of the floor.

Walsh went right in. Shraeger said, “Shouldn’t we wait for forensics—?” but he was already kneeling, reaching for the files. “Guess not.”

She saw that he did have a latex glove in his hand. He hadn’t slowed down to put it on, but he was taking proper precautions.

“These are meant for me,” he said. “The numbers. The objects. These files. It’s a message.”

“What is it? What’s the message?” Shraeger asked. She stepped into the storage area to peer over his shoulders at the files.

He flipped open the first. It contained pictures, data tables, pages of printed notes. He trained the flashlight over the files and swore.

“Hannah Kowalski,” Shraeger said. “That’s—”

“Burt’s wife,” he finished.

Shraeger knelt beside him. “What is all this?” she said, pointing at one of the spreadsheets.

“May 18th, 9:12 a.m., St. John’s chapel, with Mom. May 18th, 10:18 a.m., Simon’s Grocery, alone. May 19th, 4:13 p.m. Leslie’s Hair & Nail – it’s a schedule,” Walsh said. “Look, there’s...” He flipped through the pages. “It goes on for months. See? That’s Saturday: 6:46 p.m., Brenda’s Boutique, with Carmen and Jen.”

“That’s a disturbing level of detail,” Shraeger said. “What about the others?”

Walsh picked up the second file, flipped it open. “Dr. Monica Crumb.”

“That’s the ME,” Shraeger said.

“Was the ME,” Walsh reminded her. “She was replaced by that Zimsky guy.” He turned past the photos of her and went directly to the data. “It’s the same here. Months of detailed surveillance. Dates, times, places she went, people she saw.”

“What’s the connection between her and Ms. Kowalski?”

“She performed Burt’s autopsy. Beyond that...” Walsh shrugged. “Maybe this’ll tell us.” He reached for the third file. Both let out a small breath upon seeing the photo of the woman inside.

“That’s Amy,” Shraeger said. “Walsh, that’s Cole’s fiancée.”

Walsh sat back on his heels. He spread the three files out before them, open to the page containing the photos of the three women. After a long moment of silence, he said, “It’s us.”

“You and me?” Shraeger asked.

“No. Second Squad,” Walsh said. “We’re the connection between them. And they’re his next targets.”

* * *

The first red flag of alarm came when Leo Banks saw the flashing lights of two fire engines parked on the sidewalk of the precinct building. The second flag came when he saw the crowds of people – his co-workers – gathered and milling across the street from the front entrance. The third came when he heard a confirmed 10-79 on a police radio, meaning there was a bomb in the building.

He spotted Alvarez, Beaumont, and Cole flanking the fish perp and jogged up to them.

“Ah, good, Banks,” Alvarez said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re accounted for. You got a 10-4-7 on Delahoy?”

“Yeah, we’re on a case,” Banks said. He turned to Cole and Beaumont. “What happened?”

“We don’t know exactly,” Cole said, his eyes wide. “We were questioning Gil here when Alvarez called for the evacuation.”

“There was a bomb,” Alvarez said. “Delivered to my desk—”

Beaumont caught Banks’ eye and gave a barely perceptible shake of her head.

“Oh,” Banks said. “Oh, this is... that’s... bad.”

“Yes, well, Eddie Alvarez cleared the building and called the bomb squad,” Alvarez said. “It could have been worse, believe me. I think I may have triggered the mechanism when I jabbed it with my pencil. We’re very lucky I found it in time.”

“Wow,” Banks said.

“At least it’s stopped raining,” the fish observed.

They all turned to look at him, but surprisingly, no one said a word.

“What?” Trout said. “No fish out of water jokes? Sheesh.”

Moments later, Walsh and Shraeger badged through the cordon and joined them, but before anyone could bring them up to speed, two bomb technicians exited the building. One approached Alvarez; the other cut across the parking lot to talk with Sergeant Brown.

“Well?” Alvarez said. “Is it safe to return? Has the bomb been diffused?”

“It was a cell phone,” the tech said. He passed Alvarez the phone.

“ _My_ phone?” Alvarez said.

“Oh it’s your phone, is it?” the tech asked. “And you’re the guy who called this in. Big waste of our time, Detective. We’ll be sure your CO hears about this—”

“Walsh,” Alvarez hissed. “This is your work!” Alvarez turned on Walsh and made a wild-eyed, hook-clawed lunge for him, but Banks, Cole, and Beaumont all jumped in at once, and suddenly they were all shouting until Walsh out-yelled them all.

For several seconds, they stood in a tense, silent circle with Alvarez on one side, Walsh on the other. “We don’t have time for this, Eddie,” Walsh said. “Cole, when was the last time you spoke to Amy?”

Cole blinked. “This afternoon,” he said. “She had an appointment with the caterer at four—”

“—Call her,” Shraeger said. “Tell her to stay put until you can meet her.” Cole peeled away and immediately tried his phone.

Beaumont said, “Jason, what’s going on?”

“The Hand Writing Mugger turned killer this afternoon,” he said. “Now he’s left us a few clues about his next targets.”

“And Amy’s among them?” Beaumont asked.

“Yeah,” Shraeger said. “Along with Hannah Kowalski and Dr. Crumb, the former ME.”

“Jesus,” Beaumont swore.

“We called Ms. Kowalski on the way over,” Walsh was saying. “She’s fine; uniforms are on their way over—”

“—Excuse me,” Banks said. “Did you say Crumb? As in Monica Crumb?”

“Yes, why?” Shraeger said. “We tried to reach her, but...”

Banks wiped his forehead. “This can’t be happening.”

Cole returned. “I can’t reach Amy.” Panic lit his eyes. “I tried her cell, her house phone, even her Mom’s. There’s no answer.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Beaumont soothed. “Maybe she’s just busy finalizing the menu—”

“—Okay, team,” Alvarez said, cutting in. “This is what we’re gonna do. Cole, Beaumont, you get to Amy’s last known. Banks, you and Delahoy find and secure Dr. Crumb. Walsh, Shraeger, get to work on finding out what this guy wants with these targets in the first place. We’ll debrief at twenty-hundred.”

After an uncertain pause, Walsh said, “Sure thing, boss.”

“Good. Then... we’ll worry about the phone business at a later time,” Alvarez said. “Trout: you’re with me. Seems we have bigger fish to fry.”

Alvarez collared the fish and headed back into the building, along with the other evacuees.

A moment later, Walsh said, “Well, you heard him.”

“Twenty-hundred,” Beaumont said. And they all broke and headed off as assigned.

* * *

“Eric, it’s Leo. Look, man, about earlier.” Banks adjusted his seatbelt over his Kevlar vest. “Just, call me back. There’s something weird...”

The call waiting tone sounded. Banks thumbed the receiver to answer.

“What?” Delahoy said.

“Dude, where are you?”

“I’m in Spain.”

“Just tell me where you are—”

“—Where you left me ten minutes ago. Where else would I be?”

“Fine. Stay put. I’m on my way.”

* * *

Dusk darkened the stairway of Monica’s building, painting deep pools of shadow in the corners and doorways.

“Creepy building,” Banks observed as they approached her hallway.

Delahoy’s mouth had gone dry, so he nodded, cleared his throat, and continued along the corridor. When they arrived at her door, his stomach lurched.

“It’s been forced,” he said. He drew his gun and nudged the door. The jamb had splintered inward, and one hinge was split.

“Crap,” Banks whispered.

Delahoy gestured with two fingers, indicating to watch the loft as he squeezed through the busted door and swung in to cover the living area and kitchen beyond. Banks trained his gun on the loft as Delahoy went to the ladder, tested it, then climbed up.

Empty. He dropped down and scanned the living room. Table overturned, books scattered, settee shoved against the mantle.

Banks crept along the wall to the kitchen then pushed the bathroom door open. Also empty. “Clear,” he said, letting out a shaky breath.

“Someone was here,” Delahoy said. He peered through foggy window glass at the fire escape. “Someone was _here_ , man—”

“—Call her again,” Banks said.

Delahoy pulled out his phone, dialed. Waited. “No answer,” he muttered. He kneaded his fists in an attempt to keep from flinging dishes across the kitchen. He knew they’d need to leave things as they were, so the team could come in and dust for prints. Oh, but he wanted to do some damage, and everything in Monica’s place looked highly breakable.

“Hey, man, calm down,” Banks said. “Deep breath.”

Delahoy ground his teeth.

“C’mon,” he said. “You need a break? Need to sit down?”

“No I don’t need to sit down,” Delahoy bit out. “All the sudden you’re my Mom?”

Banks opened his mouth to speak. Delahoy waved him off. He said, “Who is this guy? This Hand Writing... Mugger, Killer, whatever? What’s he want?”

“All I know is Walsh says there are three targets: Hannah Kowalski, Crumb, and Cole’s fiancée.”

“So a sick bastard.”

“Basically.”

“Cole’s fiancée, Kowalski’s wife, and Monica.” Delahoy shook his head. “Targets for what, do we know?”

“I’m guessing it’s not tickets to Disney World.”

“Just shut the hell up, all right,” Delahoy snapped.

Banks raised his hands in surrender. Then he said, “Look, we gotta call this in.”

“I know,” he said. “Just, gimme a minute okay. I’m... she’s... she’s not normal people-sized, y’know?”

“No. That’s weird.”

“I’m scared for her. She’s...” he made a gesture with his hands, like, ‘this high’.

“We’ll find her,” Banks said.

Both heard the creak of a floorboard outside. Both trained their guns on the door.

A tiny voice on the other side said, “If someone’s in there, I have pepper spray.”

“What?” Delahoy said. “No.” He swung the door open and Monica, startled, squeaked and dropped her keys.

“Eric?”

He dragged the door back. “What if someone had been in here?” he shouted.

“There _is_ someone in here.”

“Someone not us!” he yelled. “Leo, tell her.” Banks started to speak; Delahoy steamrolled over him. “You see your door caved in, you get out of the building and you call 9-1-1! You do not come in announcing you have pepper spray. Do you even _have_ pepper spray?”

“No,” she said.

“You don’t answer your phone?”

“I went to my mother’s. Did you do this to my door?” she asked.

“No. What? No.” Then he pulled her into an awkward engulfing hug.

After a few seconds, she mumbled into his chest, “Then who did?”

“We don’t know,” Delahoy said. “But get your stuff, okay? You’re gonna have to come with us. It’s not safe.”

Monica nodded, but he didn’t let go.

“Okay,” he said. He smoothed her hair. “ _Okay_.”

* * *

Cole wrung his hands. Beaumont patted his shoulder. The evening sun lanced through the front windows of Fabiani’s Catering, turning the five-tiered wedding cake in the display case into a fountain of white gold.

“I don’t like this,” he muttered.

“Me neither, Sweetie,” she answered.

Eliza Brown came to the counter. “Hello, Detective Cole,” she beamed. “Amy finalized everything, it all looks fantastic. You ready for your big day?”

“Yes’m,” Cole said. “But I’m afraid I’m here on business. Can you tell me, what time did Amy leave here this evening?”

Ms. Brown’s expression shifted from interest to concern. “Not too long ago,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

Cole’s face whitened. When he didn’t answer, Beaumont said, “We have reason to believe she may be in danger, Ms. Brown. Can you recall a specific time when she may have left?”

“Oh dear.” Ms. Brown glanced at the clock. It was 6:20 p.m. She said, “Had to be around 5:30,” she said. “She was our second to last appointment of the day, but we did hang on and talk a while. Such a lamb. But, it was 5:30 at the latest.”

Cole squirmed with worry. “Did she say she might be heading somewhere else after?” he asked. “Another appointment perhaps?”

“Not that she mentioned,” Ms. Brown said. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes ma’am,” Cole said absently.

Beaumont touched his arm. “Thank you, Ms. Brown,” she said. “Here’s my card. Call us if you hear or remember anything.”

Outside, Cole checked his phone again. “He’s got her,” he said. “I just know it, he’s got her.”

“Hey, we don’t know that, okay?”

Cole stared at her and looked for a moment like he was going to say something when his chorus of angels ringtone interrupted him.

“Detective Cole,” he answered. His eyes flashed. “Yes, she is my bride-to-be – Yes – Is she all right? Sure – we’ll be right there.”

He ended the call. “They’ve got her at the one-five,” he told Beaumont. “She’s been mugged.”

* * *

_Attention Second Precinct, this is dispatch. Be on the look out for a Peeping Tom dressed as Willy Wonka. If you see him, tell him I’m still waiting for my Golden Ticket._

Walsh said, “Cole and Beaumont found Amy. She’d been mugged by a man wearing a mask—”

“—Our guy?” Shraeger asked.

“Yep. Apparently, he wrote the number 143 across her collarbone.”

“143.” Shraeger sucked air over her teeth. “She all right?”

He nodded. “Traumatized, but...”

“Did he leave an object?”

“Not this time,” he answered. “They’re taking her to Memorial. Cole says they’re sending over the paperwork.”

“Walsh,” she said, pushing the file folder aside. “It could’ve been so much worse.”

He leaned in. “It _is_ worse. We’ve got another victim here and no description on this guy. Only thing we got from graphology is that he’s most likely well-educated and right-handed. We’re still waiting on the sweep of Kowalski’s storage unit, but I’m betting we’ve got a big zero in the way of prints or physical evidence.”

“We have these,” Shraeger said, gesturing to the case files.

Walsh gave her a bland look.

“Look,” she said, re-opening Amy’s folder. “We have detailed information about three very different women. The only thing linking them is their connection to Second Squad, right?”

“Right. So?”

“So...” Shraeger said. “Wouldn’t it be possible to reconstruct his whereabouts based on the information he’s gathered on them? Maybe we can pinpoint certain locations, cross-reference footage from traffic cameras, and check for repeat visitors. It would narrow the search.”

Walsh looked doubtful. He said, “That could take days. This guy’s moving fast. We had four victims in twelve hours...One of them a homicide.”

Shraeger went to the map on the wall. She marked the address of Delancey Produce, where Cynthia Patronelli had been attacked. “Patronelli said she takes the same train to school every day, right?”

“The A Train, 7 a.m.,” Walsh said.

Shraeger drew a circle encompassing Delancey Produce and the train station. “And...” she marked the construction site where Lupe Carbajal worked. “Carbajal mentioned being a regular kind of guy, meaning he... did his business at a certain time every day.”

“Like clockwork,” Walsh said.

“Then we have Ryerson. We know that his body was found on Greenwich and Houston, which is outside of our parameters, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t fit the pattern.” Shraeger drew a wider circle around the remaining three locations. “What if our guy didn’t just keep tabs on these three women?” she asked. “What if he watched the other victims as well? People are creatures of habit. He could have picked them for that reason, because they kept the same schedule every day.”

“That would mean he’d have to live close to them to track their patterns so well.”

“And judging by the level of detail in the surveillance he kept on Kowalski, Crumb, and Burch, he’d have to be unemployed, or maybe self-employed. What else would allow him so much time to freely stalk all these people?”

Walsh rocked back in his chair. “He’s got our number, too. Going all the way back to Kowalski. He knows our patterns. Our habits. Maybe someone with a grudge.”

“Maybe a grudge against Kowalski?”

Walsh shrugged.

“So the guy’s close to us.” Shraeger narrowed her eyes. “That just shrinks our search radius,” she said. She inscribed a circle that encompassed Second Precinct, Delancey Produce, and Carbajal’s construction site.

Delahoy and Banks came in at that moment, with a troubled-looking Dr. Crumb between them.

“Someone broke into her apartment,” Banks said. “We called in a team—”

“—Oh! She’s gonna need to be there,” Shraeger said.

Delahoy balked and Dr. Crumb was shaking her head.

“How come?” Banks asked.

“Because the burglar may have left something,” Walsh explained. “A chess piece or figurine.”

“I don’t understand,” Dr. Crumb said. “What kind of burglar leaves something—”

“—You know what, I got this,” Delahoy snapped. “She’ll go back to her place when it’s light out and when she hasn’t been through total hell. Enough for today. We clear?”

Banks and Walsh exchanged a look. Shraeger held up her hands. “Sure. Of course. We’re clear.”

“Sergeant Brown secured rooms for Crumb and Ms. Kowalski at the Belvedere,” Walsh said. He scribbled the information on a scrap of paper. While he wrote, he said, “You all right? You look pretty rough.”

Delahoy plucked the note from the desk. “Yeah, okay,” he said. He looked at Crumb. She looked at him. They left.

To Banks, Shraeger said, “Is he all right, though?”

“Yeeeah-no,” Banks said. “It’s been a helluva day.”

Shraeger re-traced the circle on her map and said, “Tell me about it.”

* * *

“Okay,” Alvarez said, taking the lectern. “We don’t have much yet, but here’s what we’ve got: Masked attacker, male, medium build, roughly six feet tall, between the ages of eighteen and forty. Attacker is most likely right-handed, although I don’t know how that detail will help us—”

“—He’s the Hand Writing Killer, Eddie,” Walsh snapped.

“Fine,” Alvarez said. He turned to the enlarged map on the white board and pointed to the circle Shraeger had drawn there. “Attacker most likely lives in this area, is either jobless or self-employed. We have radio cars and patrol units sweeping these areas, and we’ve pulled traffic camera footage in order to isolate suspicious individuals fitting his description.” He paused, for dramatic effect. “That’s what we have as of now. Good work, team. We’ll get back at it tomorrow.”

As the briefing room cleared, Shraeger leaned over to Walsh. “You going home?”

“Beaumont’s meeting me at the diner,” he said. “You?”

“No, I thought I’d stay a while, fine-tooth those files.”

“Casey,” Walsh said. “They’re not going anywhere. If our guy does make a move, we’re a phone call away. Do yourself a favor: go grab Davis, knock back a few drinks, get some rest. You’ll be better for it.”

“Walsh...” she said, then trailed off.

“What?”

“You’re not... concerned at all that this guy is... targeting us?”

“Yeah, I’m worried,” Walsh said. “We’re cops, Case. Bad guys hate us. If we’re not making enemies, we’re not doing it right. But we can’t let it get to us, because when it does, we lose the ability to do the job.”

“Like Kowalski?”

Walsh pursed his lips. “Yeah,” he said. “Bad guys hated him. Hell, most cops hated him, too. He played a mean game, and most times, he played it alone, on his terms. He made lots of enemies. And I agree with your thinking – this is connected to him.”

“Walsh, if you can think of anything—”

He was shaking his head. “I’d tell you,” he said. “I agree, there _is_ a connection. I just don’t know what it is.”

“Or why,” Shraeger said.

“Or why,” he said. “Night, Casey.”

Shraeger stared at the files. She hovered, indecisive. She was tired, mildly hungry, in need of a shower, in want of a drink. She pulled out her phone. Her voicemail was full. She blew out a breath and dialed Davis before she could stop herself.

He answered on the second ring.

“I need a drink,” she said. “You game?”

“Always,” he answered.

“Great.” Casey pulled her coat from the chair back. “Apolo. 8:30?”

She’d almost made it to the door before turning back. She scooped the files from her desk and signed them out on the way down.

* * *

Monica Crumb wore white flannel pajamas and sat in the middle of the bed with the duvet bunched around her. Her black hair stood out in sharp contrast, and he kept thinking that she was like a little bird in a nest. It made him feel anxious and strong and protective all at the same time. It was weird.

He dropped into the chair beside the bed and slouched into its rigid frame.

“You’ll be safe here,” he told her. “There’s cable,” he said, pointing at the remote on the table. His fingers trailed to the room service menu. He flicked the edge of it with his thumb. “You want anything? Steak? Lobster? All courtesy of the NYPD.”

“No, I’m – I don’t think I could eat,” she said. “Also pregnant women shouldn’t have lobster.”

“Yeah, about that,” he said. He stared at her.

“Okay,” she said. “My last menses was August 12th.”

“That’s... really more information than I—”

“—You’re the only sexual partner I’ve had in over a year.”

“What?” This stopped him cold. “Really?”

“Don’t act so surprised. I practically attacked you in that supply closet, and you were already mostly naked, so I figured the chance of you running away was almost zero.”

“Monica—”

“—I took four over-the-counter tests, all positive, so I confirmed with a doctor,” she finished. “I have the documents in my purse, if you’d like to see them.”

“You didn’t have to say any of that. I believe you—”

“—That’s very stupid, Eric. Very naive. I could be using you.”

His brows furrowed. He said, “But you’re not, right? You wouldn’t—”

“—How can you be sure? You barely know me. And given the inauspicious start to our relationship—”

“—It’s this thing called trust,” he said. “Thought I’d try it out. How ridiculous of me...”

“You have to take better care of yourself. Someone could take advantage of you.”

“Now you sound like Leo,” he grumbled.

“Then he’s smarter than you are,” she fired back. She brought her hands down in a decisive sweep. “What we did... It was foolish and reckless and—”

“—I’m not sorry.” He fiddled with the curtains. He made himself look at her. He gave her a thin-lipped smile. “Are you? And in answering, please bear in mind my fragile mental state...”

She dipped her head, said nothing.

“You’re right,” he said. “I blackmailed you. Cost you your job. But to be fair, I did also impregnate you.”

“Eric—”

“—Why not try and get some sleep, huh?”

He crossed the room, switched off the light, returned to his chair.

After a tense silence, she said, “What does this guy want with me?”

“I dunno,” he said. “Whoever he is, whatever he wants, we’ll figure it out. And we’ll catch him.”

A few moments lapsed. She said, “Are you going to sleep there?”

“Dunno about sleep, exactly,” he said. “I’ll keep watch. You’ll be okay.”

“I’d feel safer if you were... here. Instead.”

“There? You sure?”

“It’s ridiculous for you to sleep in a chair when we’ve already had sex and seen each other almost completely naked.”

“Hey,” he said. “I don’t take my socks off.”

“Ever?”

“You want my cold feet touching you in the middle of the night?”

“No,” she said, smiling.

“’S what I thought,” he said. “Now slide over, I’m trying to comfort you.”

He shuffled his shoes off and edged onto the bed. He didn’t know what he expected, really; with her, it was either so up close he couldn’t see her, or so far away, she was out of reach. That was why, when she folded into his arms and tucked her head under his chin, he felt the thrill of it all the way to the soles of his feet.

It hurt him, too, that scary heart-clenching kind of hurt that meant it was already too late. He was gone for her, and the timing was so bad. Really, really, it could not be worse.

“Eric,” she said.

“Hmm?”

“I’m not sorry, too,” she said.

He snugged the duvet around them and kissed the top of her head.

* * *

“Casey?”

She jumped. “Busted,” she said. She dropped her pen.

Davis came into the kitchen wearing his dark green robe and a look of sleepy bewilderment. He took in the drift of paperwork on the tabletop and said, “It’s three a.m.”

“I know,” she admitted.

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Some,” she lied.

He came to the table. “What is all this?”

“It’s a case. It’s _THE_ case. I can’t seem to let it go.”

“Okay.” Davis pulled up a chair. “What’s so different about this one?”

“It’s... everything,” she said. “The guy’s MO, his patience, the level of planning, his attention to detail. It’s a puzzle, yeah – that’s what most cases are – but this one... it’s like—”

“—A work of art,” Davis said.

“That’s it,” Casey said. “Exactly. Like, you know that painting with all the little dots?”

“Of course. _Sunday in the Park_. Pointillism.”

“That’s what this is. It’s pointillism,” she said.

“I see,” he said. “I’m going to make an observation here, so don’t bite my head off, but up close, that painting is just random splodges of color. It only makes sense when you take a step back.”

Casey drew a deep breath. “And I’m focusing on the dots.”

“Think so.”

“But these dots are people’s lives,” Casey said, gesturing to the files. “He stalked these women for months, Davis. He followed them to appointments, to the homes of family and friends, to their jobs. He knows their spending habits, their activities. And here,” she pulled Amy’s folder forward. “He was able to predict Amy’s catering appointments. He knew she was going to be there last night. He knew when, and he was waiting for her...”

“Hmm,” Davis said. “Why’d he choose her?”

“I think it’s because of her connection to Cole...”

“No, I mean, last night. He had three options. Why did he pick Amy and not Ms. Kowalski or Dr. Crumb?”

“See, that’s something else I don’t get. Ms. Kowalski and Amy _are_ connected to Second Squad in the same way,” Casey said.

“Romantically.”

Casey pulled Dr. Crumb’s file from the stack. “Maybe the guy’s after something else with her? I’ve focused mainly on Amy, since she was the one he attacked. And there’s another thing that doesn’t fit. In the other muggings, the guy wrote a number and left an object.”

“But with Amy?”

“He wrote the number 143, but he _took_ her cell phone. Why would he take her cell phone? The only other person he didn’t leave an object with was Ryerson, the guy he killed. And why did he kill that guy and not the others? And why would he break into Dr. Crumb’s apartment? I mean, the guy’s precise so there has to be a reason for the variation, there’s just so much to wade through—”

“—which is why it should wait until tomorrow. You won’t be able to help anyone unless you get some rest.”

She blew a raspberry. “You sound like Walsh.”

“Walsh is a wise man.”

“It’s annoying.”

“Casey, come back to bed.”

She sighed, defeated. “You may have to drag me.”

“As in, physically?”

“Yep.”

He swept her into his arms, toppling her chair, and then bumping her head on the light fixture.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Despite the pain, she brushed it off. “Just go,” she hissed. “Just keep dragging!”

* * *

Leo Banks arrived on time. He did this with regularity, no matter what his shift. Today it was eight a.m., so he was at his desk, as usual, on the dot. The only one who ever beat him in this regard was Eddie Alvarez. Eddie Alvarez was always early, but then, Eddie was a bit of prick.

“Banks,” Sergeant Brown said. “This came in for you.” He passed him a fax.

“Thank you, sir,” he said.

“You seen Delahoy?” the Sergeant asked.

“Yes, sir,” Banks answered. It was half-true. He’d seen Delahoy last night. “He took first watch over Dr. Crumb, but Dobbs is heading over to relieve him, so...”

Sergeant Brown studied Banks. “He’s been out a lot,” he said. “All the notes on that snatch-and-grab are in your handwriting.”

“Yes sir,” Banks said.

“If his life is getting in the way of his job, he needs to come see me,” the Sergeant said. “Eric’s a good cop, but if he’s going through something...”

“I’ll talk to him,” Banks said.

“Good,” the Sergeant said. “See that you do.”

Banks clenched his teeth as he sat down at his desk. He opened the file – a hit on the suitcase dog; someone at an animal shelter reported a golden retriever dropped off in a piece of luggage.

“Bingo,” Banks said. He dialed Miss Harper Wrenway. When she answered, he gave her the shelter address.

Before he hung up, she asked, “You wanna set up an appointment for a reading? I do all kinds, you know, not just hands.”

Leo squared his vest. “What other kinds?”

“Oh, you know. Tarot. Tea leaves. Numerology.”

“Really?”

“Oh, sure. You free tomorrow?”

“Uh.” He glanced around the office. Eddie Alvarez was on the phone. Two guys were passed out in holding. “I should tell you, I’m in a relationship.”

“I’m not hitting on you, Detective,” she said. “But there’s something weighing on you, I can tell. I may have some answers.”

To say that something was weighing on him was like saying that Hurricane Ike was a bit of a summer shower. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “How’s one o’clock?”

“Perfect. See you then.”

He hung up the phone. He turned around to find a much disheveled Delahoy at the water cooler, wearing the same suit he’d been in the day before. Delahoy acknowledged Banks with an arch of his brows as he drained his cup. Then he came over and dropped into his chair.

“So nice of you to come in,” Banks said.

“Don’t start.” He riffled in his desk, pulled out a bottle of pills, and popped one into his mouth.

“You have a nice night at the Belvedere with Dr. Crumb?” Banks asked.

Delahoy toyed with a pencil on his desk. He said, “Team’s sweeping her apartment now. I’ll take her in to have a look in an hour or so. She, uh...” he cleared his throat. “Had a rough morning.”

“I don’t wanna hear it, okay?” Banks said. “Let that be your thing that you keep to yourself.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Delahoy replied. “What else we got?”

“ _I_ had a snatch-and-grab, but I closed it this morning,” Banks said.

“Good for you,” he said. “What was it?”

Banks glared at him. “You woulda loved it. Girl put a dead dog in a suitcase to take it to the vet. Guy on the subway thinks it’s a computer, so he snatches it. I put in some calls, pawn shops, vet offices. Found it this morning, dumped at an animal clinic.”

“You get the guy?”

“I got the dog, which was the point.”

Delahoy chuckled. “Carrion in a carry-on.”

“That’s... great,” Banks said.

Delahoy rocked back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hand Writing guy, what we got on him?”

“Nothing new. Oh wait, you missed the briefing—”

“—All right, back off,” Delahoy said, but it lacked the usual sting. He turned to face Banks. “I’m here now.”

It was then that Banks noticed the fatigue weighing on Delahoy. He saw the worry, the hunger, and far worse – the fear. Banks wondered then, for the first time, how long his partner had been shouldering this burden. Not the Dr. Crumb part, though that added to it, but the other. By the looks of it, a long while.

Banks sagged. “You should go home and shower.”

“You been bustin’ my balls from the moment I got in here, now you’re telling me to go home?”

“Yeah,” Banks said, a smile creeping into his eyes. “You’re giving the drunks in holding a run for their money.”

Delahoy considered a moment, then nodded.

"Go,” Banks said. “Get a shower, get some coffee. I’ll meet you at the Belvedere at 10.”

“You’d do that? You’d come with us?”

“Yeah, man,” Banks said, genuinely surprised. “You’re my partner.”

Delahoy heaved himself from his chair. They clasped hands. “Thanks, man.”

Banks nodded. “Sure thing.”

* * *

Shraeger spent a good hour and a half assembling a timeline, arranging the victim’s photos along with the objects he’d left behind, and tacking up the roughed out profile of the Hand Writing Killer (they were going with Killer now since the guy technically sucked at mugging). Then she did as Davis suggested and took a long step back to stare thoughtfully at the board.

She was standing thus when Beaumont slapped the photos of Amy Burch’s collarbone onto Shraeger’s desk.

“The bastard bore down so hard he bruised her,” Beaumont seethed. “Her wedding’s in four days and that mark’ll still be there.”

Shraeger squeezed her hand. “How’s Cole?”

“Worried sick,” she said. “This guy better have Kevlar boxers, ’cause when we find him, I’m going for his balls.”

Shraeger grimaced. She took the photos and pegged them to the white board, along with the images from Patronelli and Carbajal. She and Beaumont studied them a moment, before Beaumont asked, “Got any leads on the number?”

“Not yet,” Shraeger said. “I can’t really find a pattern, so we’re just waiting for him to make another move.” She shuddered.

Walsh sidled up to stand with them. “Just got a call from the ME,” he said. “Zimsky says Ryerson was dead before the killer carved Kowalski’s badge number into his chest. And get this,” he went on. “Ryerson was on the job.”

“A cop?” Shraeger asked.

“Prison guard at Attica,” Walsh said. “He’d taken a leave of absence in February due to a nervous breakdown. He told his superiors that a former inmate was harassing him, but there was never any evidence to substantiate the claim.”

“And Ryerson didn’t have a name for the man who harassed him?”

“No, but guess who helped Ryerson land the prison job twelve years ago?”

“Kowalski?” Shraeger said.

“Yep.”

Shraeger wrote _Ryerson knew Kowalski_ on a sticky note and stuck it to the board. “Meanwhile,” she said. “Check this out.” She pulled Crumb’s file from her desk and flipped to the last two pages. She huddled in and lowered her voice. “I found the former ME’s connection to Second Squad.”

Beaumont and Walsh read over the entries in the file and then brought their eyes to hers.

“Delahoy?” Beaumont asked, incredulous.

“According to this, he’d been to see her five times at the morgue,” Shraeger said. “They had lunch together at the Apolo, he took her to a Rangers game. Two weeks later, they met at the hospital. At midnight.”

Beaumont eyed them askance. “I know the guy’s the daredevil type, but that sounds like full-on kink,” she said.

“Well, Zimsky told us that Dr. Crumb recently lost her job,” Shraeger said. “Could be related to her late night hospital escapades with Delahoy.”

“Which explains his reaction last night, when he and Banks brought her in,” Walsh said.

“And it means the pattern’s the same,” Shraeger said. “All the targets are linked to Second Squad romantically—”

"—Walsh, is this a joke?” They turned to find Alvarez behind them, so livid that his skin appeared marbled with patches of red.

“What?” Walsh asked.

“This—” Alvarez shouted, gesturing wildly at the photo of Amy’s collarbone.

“It most certainly is not a joke, Eddie,” Walsh said, sounding legitimately confused. “That’s Cole’s fiancée.”

Eddie sputtered. “N-no. It’s not. It’s Nicole...”

“It isn’t, Eddie,” Beaumont said. “It’s the mark the killer left on Amy’s collarbone.”

For a moment, Eddie was too dazed to speak. “It’s Nicole,” he said again. “She has this tattoo on her neck. Right here, this very spot!”

“Nicole has 143 tattooed on her neck?” Walsh said.

Shraeger said, “Nicole has a tattoo?”

“What is it?” Beaumont said. “What is 143?”

Eddie looked away, embarrassed. Then he grabbed a marker from the whiteboard rail and wrote as he spoke. “One-four-three. I L-O-V-E Y-O-U. It’s a code. I have a matching one, on my chest.” He recapped the marker. “They line up... when we hug.”

“Aw, Eddie...” Beaumont said.

“Ho, wait,” Shraeger said. “Does anyone else know about this tattoo?”

“No, it’s secret,” Eddie said. “It’s our secret tattoo.”

Walsh and Shraeger struck upon the same idea at once.

“Eddie, call Nicole,” Shraeger said. “Get her on the phone. Get a guard on her.”

“What?” Eddie said.

“She’s the next target,” Walsh yelled.

Eddie stood there, stunned, his hands flexing into fists.

“Eddie,” Walsh said. “Go!”

* * *

“Anything?” Walsh said.

“Nothing,” Shraeger answered.

“She’s an Assistant D. A.,” Walsh said. “She’s high profile. She can’t just disappear. We’ll find her.”

“Walsh, what if it’s someone she knows?” Shraeger asked.

“Someone who knew about that tattoo,” Walsh said. “It’s possible.”

“But you don’t think it is.”

“No I don’t.”

“Walsh, you don’t know her like I do,” Shraeger said. “In high school—”

“—We’re all very different people when we grow up, Casey.”

“And while I know that to be true, don’t rule out the possibility that Nicole Alvarez had an affair.”

They heard Eddie’s voice in Sergeant Brown’s office. He was shouting, hysterical. When Nicole didn’t answer her cell phone, Eddie had panicked. He’d then called the DA’s office. The secretary told him that Nicole was due in court at ten; she hadn’t made it in. Proceedings were delayed, and no one had seen her. Now Eddie was all but calling for the National Guard, and Sergeant Brown was trying to talk him down.

“Who is this guy?” Shraeger said aloud. “What is he doing?”

“We need to figure out why,” Walsh said. “We figure that out, we can predict what he’ll do next.”

“Okay, so what’ve you got?” she asked.

“I still say it’s revenge,” Walsh said.

“Yes, but against who, and again, why?”

“We’re chasing our tails here...” Walsh said.

Delahoy and Banks came in, all swift and serious. Delahoy tossed an evidence bag onto the table between them. “That’s what the bastard left at Monica’s,” he said.

Walsh smoothed the outer plastic. He and Shraeger stared at it for a moment, before Shraeger said, “A newspaper?”

“Take a closer look,” Banks said.

Walsh said, “The crossword—”

“—With only one clue answered,” Shraeger said.

“One down,” Delahoy said. He stroked his mustache. “Heh. Get it.”

“Nicole,” Shraeger said.

“Okay, man,” Delahoy said. “Who is this guy? He’s starting to piss me off.”

“Eric, you’re dating Dr. Crumb?” Shraeger asked.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s your connection to her that put her on his radar,” Walsh explained.

“Yeah? Then why hasn’t he targeted Beaumont? Hm? Or Leo’s girl? Why not Bridget Demopolis? Or the guy you’re banging, Mr. Stuffed Shirt? Hm? You wanna tell me that?”

“Hey, whoa, calm down,” Walsh said. “We’re just trying to piece this together.”

“Yeah, well, let’s try and keep some perspective, all right,” Delahoy said.

Shraeger’s jaw unhinged. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s what he wants.”

They all stared at her, until Banks said, “Um, you wanna spell it out for us?”

“He doesn’t want revenge,” Shraeger said. “Or, he does. But it’s secondary. He wants us on the edge. He wants chaos. He wants excitement and emotion. So we can’t think clearly.”

“We still don’t know why,” Walsh said.

“Think about it. He told Patronelli and Carbajal that they were pieces of a puzzle, that there were bigger things at work. It’s a distraction,” Shraeger said. “He wants to divert our attention from something bigger.”

“That’s very Joker of him,” Delahoy said. “But what’s this bigger thing?”

“Maybe a court case,” Banks said. “What was Nicole working on?”

“No idea,” Walsh said. “But we can find out.”

They turned, each of them, toward Sgt. Brown’s office. From where they stood, they could see the top of Eddie Alvarez’s bowed head. The Sergeant was talking and Eddie would give an occasional dejected nod.

“Poor bastard,” Delahoy swore.

“Okay,” Walsh said. “Leo, Eric, get down to Nicole’s office. Pull her recent cases, get a last known. Look at security tapes, talk to people, but keep it quiet. We’ll put out an APB, but Sarge’ll want to handle press. Last thing we need is a media circus, ’cause our guy may be a killer, but I think he wants Nicole alive. He’s got plans for her. That’s what we want Eddie to know, when he gets out of there.” Walsh blew out a breath. “Now, Beaumont’s on her way to the hospital to switch with Cole. When he gets here, we’ll go through the traffic cam footage, see if we can’t get an ID on our stalker. He’s been playing us. Let’s not give him what he wants.”

* * *

Cole found Shraeger in the briefing room and pulled her into a gangly hug.

“How’s Amy?” she asked.

“Recovering. She’s tougher than she looks,” he said. “They’re gonna release her this afternoon. Beaumont said she’d call once the doctor signed off. Where’s Walsh?”

“With Eddie,” Shraeger said.

Cole’s frown deepened. He said, “Still no word on Nicole?”

“No. We’ve got an All Points out, limited press. We’re doing our best to keep it quiet. And Eddie’s... well, he’s a wreck.”

“I know what he’s going through,” he said. “My prayers are with him.”

“I know they are, Cole,” she said, squeezing his shoulder. “In the meantime, we’ve got these tapes to go through. If we divide them up they shouldn’t take us all night—”

Cole scanned the whiteboard display behind Shraeger and whitened. “This,” he said, tapping the picture of the silver pawn. “Where did this come from?”

“Um, Lupe Carbajal,” Shraeger said. “Our guy left it on him. Why?”

“Deep tactics,” he mumbled.

“Huh?”

“I have a piece from the same set,” Cole told her. “A bishop. Frank Lutz left it for me in his apartment, right before...”

“You’re sure it’s the same?”

“Like enough. It’s a silver chess piece.”

“O-oh, wait,” Shraeger said. “You say Frank left you a bishop?”

Tears sprung into his eyes. “Oh Lord. I knew it. This is all my fault.”

“Stop it, you don’t know that.”

“Frank told me Walsh was his end game,” Cole said. “Now I don’t know a lot about chess, but I do know sometimes pieces get sacrificed to protect the king.”

“Pieces in a game,” Shraeger said. “Cole, this gives us another connection. Our perp knew Frank Lutz. Do you know anyone else he may have associated with?”

“Frank played chess, too, Casey. He played in the park.”

“Then we’ll bring ’em in,” Shraeger said, getting quickly to her feet. “Maybe they’ve played chess with our perp. Maybe they know him. If we’ve got a pawn, a knight, and a bishop, we could be dealing with an enthusiast. If our guy’s playing chess, we need to find out the king he’s trying to protect.”

* * *

“Nicole Brandt Alvarez was last seen leaving 261 Madison Avenue at about 9:30. The doorman saw her cross there,” Delahoy gestured to the crosswalk. “Then she turned the corner. After that, _nada_ on Nicole. You got anything?”

"Her case this morning,” Banks said. “Jeff Blanch. Suspected mafia ties. Charged with enterprise corruption, racketeering, and alleged to be the mastermind of fraud worth over five million dollars.”

“I’d say that’s high profile,” Delahoy said.

“Pretty up there,” Banks agreed. “Mob boss named Jeff...”

“Sounds like a guy who can afford to spread some mayhem,” Delahoy said. “Let’s pull the case and his records, see if anything lines up.”

They rounded the corner and stared up the street at bumper to bumper mid-town traffic – buses, yellow cabs, black hired cars, and a mad flurry of pedestrians. The wind sliced down the street, razoring between the buildings. They burrowed deeper into their coats and kept walking.

“Here’s what I think happened,” Delahoy said. “Nicole came out, probably on her phone—”

“—Right,” Banks said.

“Car pulls up, maybe she thinks it’s someone she knows, maybe it’s like her regular hired car. Anyway, they grab her before she realizes what’s up.”

“Traffic cams?” Banks said.

“Neh.” Delahoy paced the sidewalk. “They’d ditch the car. They’ve got her somewhere.”

“You think she’s—”

“—No,” Delahoy said.

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“She’s not dead, Leo. It’s like Walsh says, he wants her alive.” Delahoy headed back to the car.

As Banks slid into the driver’s seat, he said, “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m right,” Delahoy muttered as he buckled in. To himself, he added, “I better be right.”

* * *

Shraeger and Walsh left the unmarked charger and struck across the Mall on foot. A blustery ice pick of a breeze blew in bursts between the buildings, and Shraeger knotted her scarf at her throat.

“Frank Lutz left Cole a bishop,” Walsh said. “What’s the bishop do on a chess board, anyway?”

“Moves diagonally,” Shraeger said. “Strategically, it works best when both bishops are on the board.”

“Hm,” Walsh said. “You a fan of the game?”

“Nah, I’m more of a lacrosse girl.”

“Lacrosse? Really?”

“Sanctioned violence with sticks,” Shraeger said. “So do you think Frank and Cole were both considered bishops in this scenario?”

“Yeah I do,” Walsh said. “And I don’t think our guy counted on Cole taking out his other bishop.”

“So he had to alter his strategy.”

They entered the Literary Walk to find the chess tables already crowded with sundry scholars and geriatrics, all of them well-bundled against the chill. Walsh strode to the end of the rows, held up his badge, and said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen, I’m Detective Jason Walsh, this is my partner, Detective Shraeger. We’re with the NYPD. We’d like to—”

A man on the far end of the row perked up, then quickly ducked his head.

“Hey,” Shraeger said. “Isn’t that Dr. Zimsky.”

In response, Dr. Zimsky bolted.

* * *

“How’s the head?” Shraeger scraped her chair forward and leaned on her elbows.

Dr. Zimsky lowered the ice pack to let her examine the crosshatched patch of bruising and abrasions she caused when she wrestled him to the street. He wore a tweed coat over a faded plaid shirt and red bow tie. On his lapel, he wore a blue button that said, “Trust me, I’m a Doctor!”

“You’re pretty tough for a girl,” Zimsky said. He gave them a tight smile. “Kudos.”

“You play a lot of chess, Dr. Zimsky?” Shraeger asked.

“Keeps the mind sharp,” Zimsky said. “Gets me out of the crypt every day. Gotta process that Vitamin D.”

“You any good?” Walsh asked.

“I played competitively in high school,” Zimsky said. “Mostly to score chicks.”

“Funny,” Shraeger deadpanned. “He’s funny.”

“You ever play with this guy?” Walsh asked, sliding a picture of Frank Lutz between them.

“Oh, yeah, Frankie,” Zimsky said. “Played him a few times. More a risk taker than a finesse guy, but he had game. Haven’t seen him though...”

“So you were unemployed for a while,” Walsh said. “That had to suck, right?”

“Tell me about it,” Zimsky said. “I missed Comic Con.”

“How long were you out of work before you took Dr. Crumb’s place?” Shraeger asked.

“Am I being charged with anything?” Dr. Zimsky asked.

“We’re just asking questions,” Walsh said.

“Well. Okay,” Zimsky said. “I left Pittsburgh in February, that’s when I lost my last job. I figured, New York – there’s probably lots of interesting dead bodies in that place, so I moved to Brooklyn—”

“Okay, I gotta ask,” Shraeger interrupted. “How’d you lose your job in Pittsburgh?”

Zimsky smirked. “My former employer was a bit of a stiff. Heh. We didn’t see eye to eye, so she let me go.”

“On what sort of things?” Walsh said.

“Well, okay,” Zimsky said. “For Halloween,” he snickered. “I played a prank on the guys in the morgue. I dressed up the corpses...”

Shraeger and Walsh exchanged a look of mild distaste.

“What? They were crack-hoes,” Zimsky said, kneading his hands. “I barely had to do anything to them. I turned them into the cast of JerseyShore.” He tittered a nervous laugh. “I mean, if you can’t laugh at death, what’s the point of living?”

“Okay, enough,” Walsh said. “Where is she?”

Zimsky paled. “Whoa, who? Snooki?”

“You know who...” Walsh said.

“I swear I don’t,” Zimsky cried.

Shraeger leaned way across the desk. “Why’d you run, Harold? Hm? That was a bold move for a man of your... stature.”

“I was concerned,” Zimsky said, his eyes bulging. “You have guns.”

“You do realize bullets are faster than people?” Walsh said.

“Why were you concerned, Dr. Zimsky?” Shraeger asked.

“Be...cause of Dr. Crumb?” Zimsky said.

“What about her?” Walsh asked.

“She’s missing?” Zimsky said.

“Why would Dr. Crumb be missing?” Shraeger asked.

“You asked where she is,” Zimsky said. “But I swear, all I did was follow her...”

“Why?” Walsh asked.

“Look, I don’t want to lose my job, okay?” Zimsky said. “I like the work. It’s quiet. It’s fun. It’s never, ever boring, and I’m good at it.”

“You’re good at dismembering bodies?” Shraeger said.

“ _No._ I mean, yeah, but not... recreationally,” Zimsky said. “But, times are hard, y’know, and I really wanted the job. Memorial already had three full-time MEs on staff, and I was tired of working as a scrub. So when Dr. Crumb started acting peculiar, I did what I had to do.”

Shraeger said, “What’s peculiar to a guy like you?”

Zimsky snorted. “I don’t know how familiar you are with Dr. Crumb but she’s... Unpleasant. Unfriendly. A procedures lawyer. The going catchphrase was hard-ass bitch. Anyway, her cop friend would show up, and she’d get...” He raised his hands and waggled them.

“Did you just throw jazz hands?” Shraeger asked.

Zimsky dropped them to the table. “She’d go all loosey-goosey, like she couldn’t think straight,” he told them. “I actually saw her be nice to the orderly. Clearly, she was getting sloppy. So I followed her, which is sneaky and suspicious, I know, but lo and behold... I got the dirt. Using a twenty thousand dollar MRI as a sex-toy may be super hot in a lot of books – including mine – but admin tends to frown on that sort of thing,” Zimsky said. “I reported her, and _presto, change-o_ , my app was at the top of the stack.”

Walsh said, “So you ran because...?”

“I thought you found out that I’d stalked Dr. Crumb then used my findings for personal gain,” Zimsky said. “But I had clearance at the hospital, so it’s not like I was trespassing, and she’s just as guilty as I am for giving her boyfriend a midnight ride on the MRI.”

Shraeger flipped the file folder closed.

“Is that it?” Zimsky asked.

“You may be an opportunistic little weirdie,” Shraeger said. “But we can’t charge you for it.”

* * *

Walsh poured a cup of coffee. Shraeger scratched her head. “Zimsky’s story checks out. He’s clean. And I thought yesterday was the day for red herrings around here,” she said.

“Fish pun,” Walsh said. “Well-played.”

“Not only did we _not_ get a lead on Nicole, if any of our chess guys in the park knew anything, we’ve successfully tipped them off.”

“He’s gonna make a move soon,” Walsh said. “That’s been his MO.”

She looked up to see Banks and Delahoy in the hallway and called to them.

“Hey, so turns out,” Banks said. “Nicole was working on a high-roller case – corruption, racketeering, and fraud connected to a Jeff Blanch...”

Walsh blinked. “Say that again?”

“Jeff Blanch,” Delahoy said. “Why? You heard of him?”

“Yeah,” Walsh said. “Big time mob guy, they call him The White.”

“Hm, well,” Banks said. “The White faces criminal penalties and mandatory jail time if the DA can make it stick. The guy’s slipped the noose a couple’a times before, but according to Nicole’s files, they’ve got irrefutable proof.”

“Like what? A witness?” Walsh asked.

“No mention of a what or a who,” Delahoy said. He popped a pill, filled up a cup with water, drained it.

Banks looked concerned. Shraeger shook her head. Walsh said, “We need to pull Blanch in, get him talking.”

“Except he’s in federal custody at the MDC,” Banks said. “We’ll have to go to him.”

“Then we’ll do that,” Walsh said.

Shraeger was shaking her head. “Nicole can’t have been the only person to know what this damning proof is,” she said. “Someone else must know.”

“Someone at her firm?” Banks guessed.

“No, it’s an old lawyer’s trick,” Walsh said. “Keep a surprise witness in the pocket. That way the defense can’t plan against it.”

“Deep tactics,” Shraeger said quietly. Then, “Is Blanch married?”

All three of the men shrugged. Walsh said, “Dunno. Why?”

“Because in chess, the queen always protects the king,” she said.

Just then Cole charged into the room, holding his cell phone in front of him. The Chorus of Angels ringtone sang _Hallelujah_ but he continued to stare at it as if it was a poisonous snake.

“Dude,” Banks said. “What—”

“It’s Amy,” Cole said.

“Well then answer it,” Delahoy said.

Shraeger understood. “Amy’s phone—”

“—was taken. By the killer,” Cole finished.

Walsh held up a hand. “You have a speaker setting?”

Cole nodded.

“Answer it. Everyone keep still.”

Cole swallowed and thumbed the answer key. “This is Detective Cole,” he said.

For a moment, they heard nothing but muffled breathing. Then, a choked sob followed by, “Cole?”

“Yes. Yes, is this Nicole Alvarez?”

Her voice trembled. “You work with Eddie.”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Where are you?”

Walsh mouthed to Banks, “Go get Eddie.” Banks tiptoed from the room.

“I – it’s dark. I’m in a – a trunk, I think.”

“Like a car trunk?” Cole asked.

More shuffling noises, then, “No. It’s wood. Oh, god, It’s made of wood.” She dissolved into sobs. “I’m in a coffin.”

“Nicole. Nicole, listen,” Cole said. “We’re gonna get you out. You just need to tell us what you remember. Okay? Can you do that? Can you tell us what happened?”

“This is the only light I have, and it’s fading,” Nicole whispered. “Is Eddie there?”

“He’s on his way, Nicole. Keep talking, all right. Tell us how you got there.”

“A man in a mask. I was getting in the car, but the driver wasn’t... there was someone in the seat. I think they drugged me. I woke up here. It’s so dark—”

Eddie burst in the room. “Nicole!”

“Eddie. Baby, I’m so scared—”

“—I’m here—”

A hollow crash drowned the connection, followed by a high pitched shriek, like metal tearing against metal. They all stared down at the phone as seconds of silence plodded by.

“Nicole?” Eddie said.

Her voice sounded frail and reedy when she spoke. “I’m moving,” she said. “Oh, god... I think it’s in motion. Eddie—”

Then the signal abruptly cut out.

END OF PART TWO


	3. Save the Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Second Squad scrambles to find Nicole Alvarez, the DA's office pressures the FBI to intervene. Sergeant Brown manages to buy them time, but now Second Precinct is working against the clock to catch the Hand Writing Killer. And as the investigation deepens, Walsh reveals a possible connection between his past and a deadly crime lord.

“It was a train,” Delahoy said. “That metal on metal sound. She’s on a train.”

“That’s—that’s great,” Alvarez said. His eyes darted to each of them. “You know how many trains there are in this city? There must be... Thousands. Thousands and thousands of trains!”

“Yes, but, think about it. We can rule out passenger trains,” Shraeger said. “Someone would see a person-sized wooden box—”

“—A coffin, she said coffin,” Alvarez moaned.

“Maybe not a coffin,” Walsh assured him. “Coffins are padded inside. She said wooden, like a trunk.”

“Yeah, like that’s so much better,” Delahoy said. Alvarez glared at him.

“He’s right, Eddie,” Walsh said. “It’s bad either way. But it helps to know what we’re looking for.”

“And where to look,” Shraeger said. “Amy’s phone doesn’t have GPS—”

“—No,” Cole said. “We couldn’t afford it, what with all the wedding expenses...”

“But Nicole must have lost cell reception right after the train started moving,” Shraeger said. “Maybe a tunnel?”

Delahoy shook his head. “Not necessarily. It’s weird she got reception at all. Freight cars are like tin cans on wheels.” Banks knuckled his shoulder. Delahoy said, “What?”

Shraeger said, “She may have lost consciousness—”

“—She lost battery,” Cole said. “Amy’s phone was always running out of battery.”

“Make a memo to get your girlfriend a better cell phone, eh, Blondie?” Delahoy said.

“Okay,” Walsh said. “We need a freight yard within two hour’s drive of the city. It’s right at eleven and Nicole was taken around 9:30.”

Banks initiated a search on the laptop he’d brought in.

“If it’s a signal issue, she could call back,” Delahoy said. “Provided she has battery and, y’know, wherewithal.”

“Wherewithal?” Alvarez growled. “She’s in a box on a train headed to god knows where. How much wherewithal would you have?”

“Eddie. Calm down,” Walsh said.   

“How can I calm down, Walsh, that’s my wife! Why has he taken _my wife_?”

“We’re gonna find her,” Shraeger said. “And then we’ll find the person responsible. Okay? Let’s just try to keep focused.”

Cole stared at the phone as if willing it to ring.

“Will she run out of air?” Eddie asked. “I mean, is it sealed up? Will she—”

“—Here,” Banks cut in, turning the laptop to face them. “Two possibilities. Oak Point Yard and Fresh Pond Junction. Oak Point is a freight yard near the Bronx. Fresh Pond runs out of Queens and handles solid waste transported out of the city. It temporarily shares lines with the subway.”

“It’s the second one,” Shraeger said.

“We’ll check ’em both,” Banks said.

“No, it’s the second,” Shraeger said, nodding sadly. “I’m sorry, Eddie, but it’s a message. Queens is a chess reference. And our guy’s telling us he’s taking out the trash.”

* * *

A few minutes later, Walsh ended his call and returned to the briefing room. “Cole, trade the phone to Eddie. Beaumont’s gonna meet us at the railyard, so you need to get to the hospital. Banks phoned the Long Island Rail Line; they had six outgoing trains in the last hour. They’ve radioed a complete stop on all freight traffic so we can get down there and search. I called the 44th; they’re sending some guys to help out.”

Cole placed the phone in Alvarez’s cold hands. “I called all Amy’s family from my phone and told them not to try her cell. They already knew her phone was stolen, but I just wanted to make sure the line stays clear. Also, they want me to tell you they’re all praying for you and for Nicole.”

Alvarez nodded. “Thank you.”

“C’mon, Eddie,” Walsh said. “Time to go.”

* * *

“We have a situation.” Sergeant Brown caught Shraeger and Walsh on their way out.

“We’ll get the cars,” Banks told them, and he, Delahoy, and Alvarez continued downstairs.

“Sir?” Walsh asked.

“Just got off the phone with HQ. The DA’s office called the FBI—”

“—This is our case,” Shraeger whispered. “Those are _our_ people out there.”

“That’s what I told HQ. They told me they think that’s part of the problem,” Sergeant said.

Shraeger wilted. “Oh.”

“I bought us some time, but not much,” he said. “We have until 5 p.m. tomorrow to bring this guy in – that’s a little over twenty-four hours – before we hand the case over to the Feds. You got that?”

Shraeger glanced at Walsh. He looked as sick as she felt. “Yes, sir,” she said.

“Good, now go find Nicole, and then let’s pin this freak to the wall,” Sergeant said.

* * *

Eric Delahoy pulled out his phone, checked it, put it back into his pocket.

“That’s twelve times,” Leo said.

“Twelve times what?”

“You’ve checked your phone twelve times,” Leo said.

“Pay attention to the road, Leo,” Eric said. Leo corrected and they narrowly skirted a moving van. “Why’s it you always drive again?”

Leo’s eyes narrowed. “Because last time you drove you forced a rickshaw driver into the Hudson.”

“Oh, right.” Eric chuckled. “To be fair, he was peddling 30 kilos of coke.”

“Heh. Pedaling.” Leo grinned at the memory. Eric checked his phone.

“You could call her—”

“— _No_.”

The traffic had thinned ahead. Lights and sirens blaring, Walsh buttonholed through a gap to cut hard onto Highway 278. Leo hit the gas to keep up with him. Eric gripped the door handle and swore. They drove in tense silence for several long crawling minutes before Leo said, “I’ve never seen you this way over a girl.”

Eric cut his eyes at him. “I’m worried, is all.”

“Dobbs is with her,” Leo assured him.

“Yeah, well, ten thousand people on the street this morning, and Nicole’s still locked tight in a wooden box,” Eric said.

Eric’s skull throbbed, but he resisted the urge to massage his forehead because it elicited a particular worried-sick look from Leo, and Eric just didn’t think he could take any more of that. Leo’s puppy-dog eyes were a large part of why Eric had elected to keep the brain tumor thing to himself. Enter, then, Monica, with all of her life-altering proclamations, and within twenty-four hours, everything had changed.

Before he could curb the impulse, he checked his phone again.

“Fourteen,” Leo said. Walsh’s car sped into the shoulder lane, cut a sharp right, and fishtailed into the gravel parking easement of the Fresh Pond Yard. Leo followed with less finesse and bumped into the lot with a jolt and a thud. They leapt from the car and jogged over to join the others, but before they did, Leo caught Eric’s arm.

“Take a second and call her,” he said quietly. “See how she’s enjoying the room service. Ask her how her day’s been. Tell her you’re all right.”

“Leave it alone, Leo,” Eric said, his scowl deepening. “I’m not gonna call her,” he muttered, and they joined the team.

* * *

Charlie Beck, the railyard foreman, and Officer Marek of the 44th precinct fell in with them as they crossed into the yard. A sharp wind bit down, towing with it a bank of matte gray clouds that threatened rain.

Marek said, “I’ve got three teams at work on the northwest hub, cracking freight cars open, checking the contents. We have nine lines northbound, six southbound. Right now, all traffic in and out is stopped. The six outbound trains didn’t get but a couple of miles up the tracks before we got your call.”

“Good, thanks,” Walsh said. “Mr. Beck, did you or any of your guys hear or see anything out of the ordinary?”

“This is a big yard, Detective,” Mr. Beck said. “We’re always short-handed. Why you think these cars get all tagged up? Most of the time, this place is a graveyard.”

Alvarez shuddered. Shraeger looped her arm in his.

Walsh said, “We’ll start with the outbound trains and go car by car. Keep in radio contact. Officer Marek, we’ll meet in the middle. Let’s go while the weather holds out.”

As they entered the rail yard, Banks staggered to a halt at seeing the rows and rows and rows of nondescript freight cars spread out like beads on strings across the railyard, as far as their eyes could see.

“There are thousands of them...” Banks said.

“Yeah. So let’s get started,” Delahoy said.

* * *

The work wore down to a rhythm. Twist the crank, slide the door back, climb inside, sweep the contents. They left the doors open on the cars they’d checked. Banks and Delahoy kept a count, calling out numbers as they went.

They marched along the dual set of tracks where the outbound trains had been stopped. Banks and Delahoy took the eastbound track. Shraeger took the westbound with Walsh and Alvarez.

Shraeger’s eyes streamed from the stinging wind. Her hands ached inside her gloves. She’d lost count of the cars she and Walsh had cleared. And how many cars did one train have, anyway? Alvarez plodded diligently, skipping ahead of them, pressing his ear to a car. He’d call her name and then crack the car open to climb inside. Working alone, like always. But this time, she understood.

She hoped he’d be the one to find her.

As Shraeger cranked open another lock and heaved against the door, Walsh jogged up. “Beaumont’s with Marek’s team. They’ve finished one of the southbound trains.”

“Anything?” Shraeger asked.

“Nothing,” he answered.

“It’s getting colder,” Shraeger said as she dropped down to the gravel. “This one’s clear.”

“Guys,” Banks shouted, “I think we got something!”

Shraeger darted to the eastbound lane and climbed between couplings. Banks stood back, staring up at the broadside of the car. Delahoy was at work on the crank. Shraeger joined Banks and felt her pulse quicken. There, painted in ornate blue letters three feet high, was the number 143.

“Eddie! Walsh!” she cried.

Delahoy shoved the door back and hauled himself inside. Seconds later, they heard his muffled voice. “How sweet it is,” he said. Then, louder, “Hey, Eddie, we’re gonna need some bolt cutters!”

* * *

“So what do we have?” Allison Beaumont said. They huddled together at the front doors of Memorial Hospital, each warming their hands on paper cups of stale coffee.

“You mean other than two women in the hospital and twenty-one hours to solve this case?” Shraeger asked.

“What do you mean, twenty-one hours?” Banks asked.

“Nicole’s position in the DA’s office plus the nature of the crime drew the attention of the FBI,” Walsh explained.

“He put her in a box,” Delahoy said for perhaps the thirtieth time since they left the railyard.

“We know, man,” Banks said, glancing nervously at the others. “Chill.”

“No, listen,” Delahoy said. “Who would do that to a person? To a human being? What kind of brain job works out that plan? _Hm, what will I to do today? Have some eggs, maybe some toast, and then I think I’ll put a woman in a box and ship her to_ _Jersey_ _._ Who does that?”

“Eric. Man,” Banks said quietly. “You all right?”

For a moment, Delahoy appeared confused. He palmed sweat from his forehead and uttered a weak laugh. “Yeah, no, ’m fine. Go on.”

“We got Hancock coming in to relieve Cole’s watch on Amy,” Walsh said. “I think it’s best if Eddie stays here, with Nicole. Once she’s conscious and responsive, we’ll see if she can remember anything.”

“And find out who might have known about that tattoo,” Shraeger added. 

Delahoy leaned into the huddle, his elbows on his knees. “Look, it’s clear this was all a diversion, okay. Think about it. While we were out in Queens, chasing the Assistant DA-in-a-Box, our Hand Writing Killer was busy doing something else.”

“So what was he doing?” Beaumont asked.

“Bank heist?” Banks suggested. “Bomb threat? Jailbreak?”

“It really is that wide open, isn’t it?” Delahoy said.

Casey felt like a bowling ball had rolled into her stomach. “He’s setting up for the end game, and we don’t even know what board we’re playing on.”

“Then let’s get back to the shop,” Walsh said. “See if we can figure it out.”

* * *

Casey Shraeger was at the drawing board. Literally. No matter how far back she stood, she still only saw random splodges of color. Nothing coalesced. Cole was in the media room, still sifting through traffic cam footage. Banks and Delahoy volunteered to search Ryerson’s apartment again. Beaumont was on the phone to a processing clerk at Attica State Penitentiary.

Shraeger had been through her files three times and still had nothing.

Walsh came in to stand beside her. “Jeff Blanch is in federal custody. We’ve got clearance to question him this evening,” he said. “Also, Sergeant Brown issued an 11-59 to all precincts, letting ’em know there’s something afoot and to double patrol.”

“Good. That’s good,” Shraeger said. She covered one eye.

“What are you doing?” Walsh asked.

“I’ve tried everything else,” she told him. “I’m just trying to shake up the perspective, see if I’m missing anything here.”

“Hey, you remember those big-ass jigsaw puzzles from when we were kids, the ones with the ten thousand jelly beans or a ship out on the ocean—”

“—where most of the pieces are various shades of blue?” she interrupted.

“Those ones.”

“Hm. Yeah. Never had the patience to finish the whole thing.”

Walsh breathed out a tired sigh. “Yeah, me neither. But I do know that fitting some pieces together makes it easier to solve the whole thing.”

“It also helps if you start with all the edges and corner pieces,” Shraeger said, “Not sure how that helps us here.”

“Well,” Walsh said. “Let’s start with our edge pieces. Cynthia Patronelli and Lupe Carbajal.”

“Chosen at random,” Shraeger said. Then added, “Seemingly?”

Walsh shrugged. “Chosen because they always move in the same way.”

“Like pawns,” Shraeger said.

“Then we have the pieces closer to us: Amy Burch and Nicole Alvarez,” Walsh said.

“Frank Lutz and Cole, too,” Shraeger added. “And the pieces he didn’t move, Dr. Crumb and Ms. Kowalski.”

“Because we blocked him, Casey,” Walsh said.

“With Hannah Kowalski, yes,” Shraeger said. “With Crumb it was stupid luck. According to her statement, she’d taken an unplanned trip to visit her Mom yesterday afternoon. She broke her regular routine. Otherwise, there might have been two women in boxes heading out of Fresh Pond Yard this afternoon.”

Walsh massaged his eyes. “It’s Ryerson that doesn’t fit,” he said.

“If we can find out where he fits,” Shraeger said, “We may have a starting point.”

Beaumont stepped up beside them. “Then I just might have some good news for you,” she said. “The fax came in from the prison. Look what I found.”

She showed them the highlighted space on the roster.

“Noel Blanch,” Shraeger said. “As in, related to Jeff Blanch?”

“His nephew,” Walsh said.

Shraeger and Beaumont snapped their attention to him.

“You know him?” Beaumont asked.

“He was an outfielder for the Yankees,” Walsh said. “Batted clean-up—”

“—Went to _prison_ ,” Shraeger said.

Beaumont said, “According to the records, Blanch served six years for drug trafficking.”

“Always wondered what happened to him,” Walsh said. “Now I know.”

“This is a link, Walsh,” Shraeger said. “And I bet that Noel Blanch was the one harassing Ryerson while he worked at Attica. It’s a connection. Ryerson knew Kowalski, ergo...”

“Kowalski knew Blanch,” Walsh said. He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Something shifted in Walsh’s posture, something subtle about the way he squared his shoulders and squinted his eyes. Shraeger studied him for a moment while questions bubbled over in her mind. She could read him well enough to know that he wasn’t sharing everything. Walsh had a secret.

But Shraeger also trusted him, so she knew better than to blow his cover. Instead, she turned to Beaumont and asked, “Where is Blanch now?”

“I pulled his file,” Beaumont said. “He’s living on Long Island. Married with a kid. Owns a screen printing business. Not exactly the drug lord type. But you know how it goes...”

“Yes I do,” Shraeger said. “Let’s find him, bring him in.”

* * *

Eric Delahoy sliced the cordon tape sealing the door to Ryerson’s apartment and they stepped inside.

“I always hate the smell in these places,” Leo said. “Smells like...” he trailed off and stepped into the tiny tiled kitchen.

“Pine Sol?” Eric ventured. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Leo, as usual, was already wearing his.

“No, not Pine Sol,” Leo grumbled.

“You can say it, Leo,” Eric said. He rifled through some papers on an entry table. “It’s one of your favorite topics of conversation.”

“It was never my favorite,” Leo said under his breath. He opened each kitchen drawer and sifted through old circulars, pizza coupons, soy sauce packets, and rubber bands.  Ross Ryerson had cabinets cluttered with plastic cutlery and a pantry stocked with Raman noodles.

“We gonna talk about this?” Leo asked. “Or are we gonna continue to pretend there isn’t this giant elephant in the room?”

Eric pulled open the refrigerator. It was empty except for one fuzzy onion in the back.

“You saying my tumor’s an elephant? ’Cause I’m pretty sure it’s not that big,” Eric said. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Ha ha,” Leo said. “The man is hilarious, ladies and gentlemen. He thinks that death is just this cosmic joke.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Eric said. “ _Life_ is the joke. Look around, hmm? What kind of life did this guy lead? Dry noodles. No beer in the fridge. Nothing but bills in his mail. His TV’s sitting on a stack of blocks. I mean, how old was he?”

“Like it matters, right?” Leo snapped.

“Right,” Eric said. “And he’s dead, Leo. No chubby baby photos on the walls. No house plants. No pets. He may as well have never lived, and the most interesting thing to happen to him was his murder.”

“That’s... brutal,” Leo said.

Eric arched his brows. He checked his phone. Leo pretended to not notice.

“Everything in this place suggests temporary living arrangement,” Leo said. They moved into the living room/bedroom and heaved up the futon mattress. They found a few pennies, a pizza crust, and a pencil.

“File said he’d been here half a year,” Eric said. He kicked up the edge of a filthy braided rug. “What’s it we’re looking for, exactly?”

“A gaming piece of some sort,” Leo guessed. “Playing cards, a puzzle. Something the forensic team would have missed.”

“See, our perp’s a smart guy,” Eric said, bending to examine the rug. “He didn’t kill Ryerson here ’cause he knew the forensic guys would only do the basic sweep.”

“And since Ryerson doesn’t have any family,” Leo said, “This place could sit seventy-two hours—”

“—Or more—”

“—Yeah, or more, before the team could do a proper search. If then.”

“Another sad New York statistic,” Eric said. “Ready?”

Leo nodded. Eric continued to roll the rug back. Leo assisted by nudging it with his foot. When they’d pushed it against the wall, Leo pointed at a slot of darker wood near the corner.

“Loose floorboard,” Eric said. “Not the most original, but I’m game.”

They pried it up with little effort to reveal a small compartment about the size of a shoebox.

Eric knelt and reached into the hole. He pulled out a bundle of cash.

“Oh, nice,” Leo said.

“Cliché but nice,” Eric agreed.

Next he pulled out a Hoyle playing card. He palmed it and said, “Take a guess, Leo. I’ll bet you that stack of cash you can name it in one.”

Leo gave him a tight smile. “I’m gonna go with... Ace of Spades.”

Eric flipped over the card and shouted, “The Ace of Spades!”

“What else you got in that hole?” Leo asked.

Eric narrowed his eyes. Leo said, “ _What?_ ”

“You really find nothing wrong with that statement?”

“Dude...”

Eric held up his hands. Then he reached back in to the compartment and withdrew a rectangular cookie tin with a Santa Claus embossed in its lid. Sitting back on his heels, he popped it open, and they stared at its contents for a several long moments before Eric said, “Those are fingers.”

“Those _are fingers_ ,” Leo agreed.

After the shock of fingers dissipated, Leo realized there was a stack of cards and photographs beneath them.

“Uh, Eric,” he said, gesturing at the fingers. “You mind?”

Eric tilted the tin and the fingers rolled dryly to its back edge. Leo plucked a few photos from the stack and spread them across the floor.

“There we go,” Eric said. It was pictures of them, of Second Squad. Cole with Frank Lutz at a hot dog stand. Walsh and Beaumont sipping coffee at the diner. Shraeger and Davis eating ice cream at RockefellerCenter. Eric outside Memorial, with Monica in the frame but slightly blurred. Leo and Bridget at Michelo’s, holding hands. A picture of Hannah Kowalski smelling a rose in her garden. Then there was a photo of Eddie with a bikini-clad Nicole on some white-sand beach.

“And there’s her secret tattoo,” Leo said.

“Now we know,” Eric said.

Leo poked at the remaining cards stacked in the tin. “What are these?”

Eric pulled out six credit cards, an ID badge, and a driver’s license, all in Ross Ryerson’s name.

“Okay, so maybe his death wasn’t the most interesting thing to happen to him,” Eric said.

“Only one problem, though,” Leo said.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Guy in the picture...” Leo said, pointing at the ID badge. “...that’s not Ross Ryerson.”

Eric rattled the fingers in the tin. “Maybe these _are_?”

* * *

The moment they pulled into traffic, Walsh said, “I know Noel Blanch.”

“I figured that out,” Shraeger said. She stared hard at him and waited for him to elaborate. He switched on the dash light and sped through the intersection.

“Walsh...” she began.

“Look, Beaumont doesn’t know about Cole, all right,” Walsh said. “And there are a few things she doesn’t know about me.”

“Like your girlfriend’s murder?” Shraeger said, keeping her tone gentle.

He glanced at her. “She knows that part,” he said. “She doesn’t know why.”

“But all this is related to that incident, right?” Shraeger guessed.

Walsh gripped the steering wheel. “I... suspected that Noel Blanch was connected to Amanda’s murder.” He cleared his throat. “Couldn’t prove it; the Blanch family is well-protected. When I came to Second Squad, I was assigned to Kowalski. Now, Kowalski, he was a connections man. His informants had informants. He built this whole network of information—”

“—Which explains his storage unit,” Shraeger put in.

“Right,” Walsh nodded. “So, one night on stake out, we got to talking, and he mentioned Jeff Blanch. Burt referred to Blanch as his Moby Dick—”

“—Ah, _White_ whale,” she said. “Nice.” They shared an appreciative smile.  

“Blanch was always getting off the hook,” Walsh said. “Technicalities, bribes, loopholes – you name it, Blanch used it. So that night, I brought up Noel Blanch, asked if they were related, and somehow I wound up spilling my whole story, just like that—” Walsh smiled at the remembrance. “—Kowalski was good at getting people to talk. It was a gift.”

“Good one to have in our line of work,” Shraeger said.

“Yeah.” Walsh stared through the windshield. Shraeger watched and waited, knowing that he’d continue when he was ready.

“Half a year later, Noel Blanch was convicted for drug trafficking,” Walsh said. “Kowalski told me he’d taken care of it. We never spoke of it again.”

“Was Blanch guilty?” Shraeger asked.

Walsh shrugged. “I didn’t ask.” He dragged a hand across his face. “C’mon. He must have been. The case was sealed so tight not even the Blanch family litigation team could save him.”

“Okay,” Shraeger said. “Kowalski put Noel Blanch away. Five years later, he’s released on parole. Gets married, has a kid, moves to Long Island and buys a mini-van. Meanwhile, Uncle Jeff’s ensnared in legal turmoil of his own. How did Jeff Blanch feel about Noel’s prison term, do you know?”

Walsh shook his head. “Can’t have been happy about it.”

They drove on, cutting across the BrooklynBridge and heading south toward the MetropolitanDetentionCenter. Fog banks drifted like ghosts across the river, obscuring the Manhattan skyline. Shraeger pulled at the edge of her scarf.

“Ryerson links Blanch to Kowalski,” Shraeger said, thinking aloud. “If we can find proof that Blanch harassed Ryerson, we may have ourselves a suspect.”

“It’s all circumstantial, Casey,” Walsh said.

“But think of it, Walsh,” she said. “Blanch had five years in prison and mob connections like a Francis Ford Coppola movie. He’s part of a crime family, for goodness sake, who else could’ve put this plan into action?”

“No, I’m with you,” Walsh agreed. He pulled the charger into the parking lot of the MDC and shut off the engine. He turned to face her. “It’s finding proof that’s the problem.”

“Well,” Shraeger said. “Let’s go see what Uncle Jeff has to say, shall we?”

* * *

Eddie Alvarez held his shoulders back when he walked into the precinct office. He ignored the eyes of his uniformed co-workers – Leech was the only one he could name out of all of them, anyway – and came to stand behind Detectives Beaumont and Cole, who were spreading out a series of 8x10s on her desk.

Blurry 8x10s. Whatever they were, they were inadequate.

“What are these supposed to be?” he asked. Both jumped at the sound of his voice.

“Eddie,” Beaumont said. She pulled him into a stiff hug. Then Cole clapped him on the shoulder and muttered something about Jesus watching over him.

“You’re supposed to be at the hospital with Nicole,” Beaumont said.

“Nicole is still unconscious, Detective Beaumont. I feel... useless just... standing at her bedside. I can better serve her here by finding the man who did this to her, before he can hurt someone else,” Alvarez said. “Officer Whitaker is standing guard, with orders to call me the moment she wakes.”

“You look horrible,” Cole said.

“I assure you, fatigue will not hamper Eddie Alvarez’s ability to do this job,” Alvarez told them. “Now what are these pictures?”

“They’re the images from the traffic cam footage,” Cole said. “We have a computer program that recognizes repeating patterns, such as facial features, stature, and articles of clothing, like a jacket or a scarf.”

“Right now, we’re just trying to pick out individuals the program isolated,” Beaumont said. “Wanna take a look?”

Alvarez picked up the corner of a photo and scrutinized it. The grainy image showed a crowded crosswalk at midday. Yellow rectangles highlighted the heads and shoulders of five different men. “One of these guys could be our killer?”

“That’s what we’re checking,” Beaumont said. “Three of these men appear in the same crosswalk at the same time each day for five months—”

“—That doesn’t tell us anything,” Alvarez interrupted. “The whole city follows a pattern, home to work, work to home, every single day—”

“—You’re right. But,” Cole laid out a series of four more pictures, all just as pixilated as the first, but featuring different city blocks. “The program identified the same three men in these locations during the same five months’ time. Our next step is to get the sketch artist to rough out a composite. From there, maybe we can get an ID—”

“—And this could really be our Hand Writing Killer?” Alvarez asked.

“Possibly,” Beaumont said. “This intersection is West and Clarkson, about two blocks from Dr. Crumb’s apartment, and this one is...”

Alvarez turned slowly, moving as if in a daze. Still pinching the photo’s edge, and drifted to his desk. He pulled out his manila file folder and slapped it clumsily onto his desk. Cole and Beaumont watched him with growing alarm as he doddered around in search of a pen.

“Eddie...?” Beaumont asked. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, this?” He met her gaze briefly before returning to his file. “I’ve been keeping track of everyone’s hours. Kind of a field log. It’s part of a report I’m preparing to present to the city’s Budget Review Board, to see if we can’t get some better equipment and up-to-date technology around here. This is a prime example of ingenuity and determination even in the face of inadequate resources. Cole, how many hours did you spend compiling this information?”

Cole looked genuinely surprised. “Hours?” he asked.

“You did count your hours?” Alvarez said.

“Um, no,” Cole said. “I took Amy home, then came up here around noon and got started right away. Is that what you’ve been doing all this time with that file?”

Alvarez looked confused. “Well, yes.”

“You’re not keeping track of our personal phone calls?” Beaumont asked.

“I don’t see how that would help us secure additional funds for the next fiscal year, Detective,” Alvarez said. “Sergeant Brown put me in charge of this  report...”

“No, no.” Beaumont patted his shoulder. “It’s good, Eddie. You’re doing a great job.”

Alvarez gave her a weak smile. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” She passed him a pen.

“It did take an eternity to download those graphic files over our servers,” Cole said. “We truly could use some up-to-date technology around here.”

“And a coffee maker that doesn’t brew sludge,” Beaumont said. “Put that in there.”

Alvarez’s smile broadened, and for one panic-inducing moment, Beaumont thought he might actually cry. Instead, he said, “It certainly would help.”

“We’re gonna catch him, Eddie,” Beaumont said.

“Oh, I know we will,” Alvarez said. “We’ll catch him, and he’s gonna pay.”

* * *

“Knock knock,” Eric said as they entered the morgue. Other than the secondary lighting and a green lava lamp on the desk which provided an ominous _X-Files_ glow, the place appeared empty and dark.

“So, you spent a lot of time here?” Leo asked conversationally. Only, it sounded more strained than conversational.

“Nah, not really,” Eric said. He scanned the scatter of files strewn across a desk. There was an open bottle of Mountain Dew and a half eaten jelly bagel on the blotter. “Though the place did seem a bit more cheery with her in it.”

“Cheery? I can’t imagine a less cheery place,” Leo said. “I’m telling you, we have to page an ME after six. No one’s here. This is a waste of time.”

“Don’t get antsy, Leo. I’m just gonna check the freezer section.” Eric crossed to the lockers and began to read off the names of the bodies stored there. After the first half dozen, he said, “That’s a lot of bodies.”

“Can we go?” Leo asked.

“Someone _was_ here,” Eric said. “He was in the middle of a snack before we came in, so...”

"Who could eat down here?” Leo wondered.

They heard a hollow scrape from behind them. Leo reached for his gun.

“Office, in back,” Eric muttered.

They slipped soundlessly to the office door. Leo said, “This is Detective Banks. Come out with your hands up.”

The door flew open and a screaming figure lunged at them. Eric hauled Leo behind him and turned back just as the weapon slashed down and caught him full in the face.

* * *

Jeff Blanch wore a perma-smirk that had Casey’s palms itching to smack it off his face. He was a tall guy, thin and blade-like, with pale eyes and short-cropped hair. He wore his orange jumpsuit the way James Bond would wear a tuxedo, and when they sat across from him at the small metal table, he stared at them without saying a word.

“You know why we’re here,” Walsh said.

Blanch spread his hands. His shackles rang tunelessly against the table top.

“You’re right,” Shraeger said. “You don’t have to say anything without your lawyer present, but you should know that your nephew, Noel, is our primary suspect in a murder case and the kidnapping of the Assistant DA, Nicole Alvarez.”

“Who, by the way, is the leading prosecutor in your conspiracy-to-commit-fraud case,” Walsh added.

“Yes,” Blanch said, in an unexpected British accent. “Noel’s been trying to worm his way back into the family’s graces for years.”

“Is that what he’s trying to do here?” Shraeger asked. “Impress you so you’ll admit him back into the family business?”

“I’ve no idea what he’s trying to do,” Blanch said. “Detective Shraeger, is it?”

“Yes.”

“And Jason Walsh.” Blanch folded his hands on the table. The smirk deepened.

“We found Assistant DA Alvarez in a box on a train, Mr. Blanch,” Walsh said.

“That’s... novel,” Blanch said.

“She was kidnapped outside her office just before she was due in court for your preliminary hearing,” Walsh continued. “You see where we’re going with this?”

“I do,” Blanch said.

Shraeger leaned forward. “Linking you to the kidnapping of the Assistant DA can add up to fifteen years to your sentence, Mr. Blanch. If you know anything about your nephew’s involvement...”

“I know nothing of Noel’s comings and goings,” Blanch said. “Nor do I wish to.”

“Are you married, Mr. Blanch?” Shraeger asked.

Blanch’s smile grew into a leer. “You’ve really got nothing, do you?” He chuckled softly. “See, I know police. I know how you work. A detective sees something broken – a clock, for example – and he devotes all of his time, sifting through pieces to put it back together. What he never understands is that once it’s broken, what good is it to anyone? It’s nothing but a useless collection of broken pieces. It can never go back to being a clock. Isn’t that right, Mr. Walsh?”

“Beg your pardon?” Walsh asked.

Shraeger decided to play dumb and held out her hands in mock surrender. She said, “Hold up, wait, I’m confused by your metaphor. Are people the clocks here? Are the crimes the clocks? And what does that have to do with Noel?”

“A clock is a clock, Detective Shraeger,” Blanch said.

Walsh stood up. “All right. It’s time to go,” he said.

“I agree,” she said, following his lead. “Big waste of time.”

But there was something predatory in the way Blanch watched them go, something triumphant in his smile that made her skin crawl.

Back outside, Shraeger stuffed her hands in her pockets. “Well—”

“—He knows,” Walsh said.

She jogged to catch up to him. “Knows what?”

“He’s not playing the game, Casey,” Walsh said. “That’s why he didn’t answer any of our questions. He doesn’t have to. He’s an observer. He’s watching...”

“...And all the cryptic clock talk?”

“That was aimed at me, I think,” he said. He leaned his elbows on the car roof. “When you shatter something – really shatter it – it can’t ever go back to being what it was.”

“Like...?”

“Like a guy who plays ball can never just go back to playing ball...”

Shraeger nodded. She understood. “He called you _Mr._ Walsh.”

“He called you _Detective_ Shraeger. He _knows_ ,” Walsh said again. He unlocked the car door and dropped heavily into the driver’s seat.

“And he’s not talking,” Shraeger said, following suit. “Which means we’re back to Noel. And we have,” she checked her watch. “Nineteen hours before HQ shuts us down.”

Walsh started the engine. “Let me ask you this,” he said. “Did it seem to you that Blanch was _enjoying_ this?”

Her stomach rolled. “Yes,” she said. “Savoring it, more like.”

Walsh backed out of the parking spot and pulled into the street. “That’s what I thought,” he said. “Who doesn’t enjoy watching a good game?”

* * *

Delahoy, bloody-nosed and furious, shoved Dr. Harold Zimsky into holding. Banks, equally furious but not bloody, slammed the door shut.

Zimsky came to the bars. “But I can explain—”

Banks raised a warning finger. “Not. A. Word,” he warned him.

Beaumont rounded her desk with Cole and Alvarez trailing after her. Delahoy was dabbing at his nose with a wadded handkerchief – Leo’s – and muttering under his breath. He collapsed into his chair and titled against the wall to staunch the blood.

“What the hell happened to you?” Beaumont asked.

Banks said, “Went down to the morgue to ask the ME about the Ryerson autopsy—”

“—and Vader here attacked us with a light saber,” Delahoy finished.

Cole ventured closer to Delahoy to see if his nose was broken and was rewarded with a shouted, “Get the hell off me, I’m fine.”

“That’s Dr. Zimsky,” Beaumont said.

“Yeah, we know,” Banks said. He squirted antibacterial gel in his palm and vigorously rubbed his hands together. “The guy who ran from Walsh and Shraeger in the park this afternoon.”

“His story checked out, though,” Alvarez said. “They kicked him loose...”

“Yeah, that was before,” Banks said. “Cole, pass me Zimsky’s case file from this afternoon.” Cole handed the file to Banks, and as he opened and began to skim, he said, “Eric, you wanna do the show-and-tell portion? You’ve earned it.”

“That I have, my man. That I have,” Delahoy said in a voice a shade more nasal than his normal voice. He tossed the bloody handkerchief to his desk and withdrew an evidence-bagged cookie tin from his coat pocket. “We found this in Ryerson’s apartment. Guess what’s in it.”

“Not... cookies?” Cole asked.

Delahoy uttered a fake laugh, which Banks picked up. “Cookies, that’s good,” Banks said, still laughing. Then, abruptly and simultaneously, they both stopped, and Delahoy said, “Fingers.”

“What?” Beaumont asked.

Banks looked over the edge of the case file. “Fingers, snapshots of all of us, and these...” He dumped his evidence bag full of credit cards and the security badge onto his desk.

Alvarez nudged the credit cards around with a pencil eraser so that they could all read Ryerson’s name on them.

Cole stared at the badge photo, looked over his shoulder at the board in the briefing room, and said, “That’s not Ryerson.”

“Bingo,” Delahoy said.

“I know who it is,” Beaumont said. She stepped back to her desk and returned with a file. She opened it between them, revealing the photocopied mug shot of inmate number 13413, Noel Blanch.

“The numbers,” Banks said. “Anyone else recognize those digits?”

After a moment, Beaumont said, “I’ll be damned. I put in a call to the 5-47 in Long Island an hour ago. I haven’t heard back.”

“I’ll give ’em a call,” Alvarez said. “Nicole and I had dinner with Captain Powers and his wife in Montauk this summer. I’m certain that if Noel Blanch is on Long Island, they’ll have him within the hour.”

Delahoy drummed his thumbs on the cookie tin. “White Christmas,” he said.

Cole said, “What are you talking about?”

Delahoy smoothed the plastic over the embossed Santa face. “Noel Blanch. White Christmas. This guy, he’s—” he waggled his fingers in the air “—crazier than a blender full of hamsters.”

Banks stared over Delahoy’s head at Zimsky in the holding cell. “Bet this joker knows him.”

“Let’s dig deeper into Zimsky’s background check,” Cole said. “See what kind of student he was.”

“He hit you with a light saber?” Beaumont said.

Delahoy scrubbed his forehead. “Bastard thinks he’s Qui-Gon Jinn.”

“Let me have a crack at him, okay?” Banks said to Delahoy. “You sit this one out.”

“You sure?” Delahoy asked.

Banks closed Zimsky’s file folder. “Oh, I’m... I’m _very_ sure,” he said. He knew exactly how to play it.

* * *

“Hiya, Harold,” Leo Banks said, scraping his chair forward to the table. “Big day for you. Two trips to jail, and you got to hit someone with your laser sword.”

“It’s a light saber,” Zimsky said.

“Whatever, look,” Banks said. He switched off the video recorder. “Let’s talk off the record for a sec, how’s that?”

“Off the record, that sounds cool.”

“Shut up,” Banks said. “You know the guy you hit? That’s my partner, Eric.” Banks laced his fingers together and leaned in, conspiratorially. “Here’s the thing, Harold. Eric’s had an unbelievably bad couple of days.” Banks paused. “He’s got a brain tumor.”

“Eesh. That sucks,” Zimsky said.

“I know. Tough breaks, right? Now, he’s known about it for months, but he kept it a secret, ’cause that’s the kind of guy he is. He’s got this gruff exterior, wrapped up inside another, even gruffer exterior, but beneath that, there’s a heart. He doesn’t like to see his friends hurt. So he kept the news a secret.”

Zimsky’s brow furrowed. “I, uh, don’t get—”

“I’m not done,” Banks said, his tone terse and incisive. “Yesterday, we’re taking an early lunch, nothing extraordinary, when in comes Eric’s something-on-the-side, know what I mean?” Banks grinned a shark’s grin. “Yeah. Cute little Asian girl. She comes in and drops the brain tumor bombshell on me. Apparently, she’s known about Eric’s condition for a while. Two months, to be exact, because she helped him steal an MRI...”

Zimsky straightened, his eyes widening. He said, “Oh.”

“And the penny drops,” Banks said. “And it’s sweet, right? She risks everything because her guy’s too scared to go see a surgeon.”

“ _That_ guy?”

“Hard to fathom, I know. He once jumped from a rooftop through a window to save an old lady, yet he’s afraid of doctors.” Banks chuckled. “But see, what I didn’t understand is that the something-on-the-side-girl isn’t just ‘on-the-side’ for him. She’s not some cute Asian girl with a fetish for medical equipment. He _likes_ her.”

“And I ratted her out,” Zimsky said.

Banks nodded. “She lost her job. Now, Eric’s not too happy about that or the fact that you just busted his nose with a _Star Wars_ toy. He’s prepared to do some damage. Oh, and I should tell you, the cancer’s terminal, so he’s not concerned about long-term repercussions.”

Banks felt his throat constrict. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. It was the first time he’d said it aloud, and it overwhelmed him. He poured himself a glass of water and took a long, steadying sip. When he felt like his heart was no longer clawing its way up his throat, he set the glass aside, and focused his full attention on Zimsky.

“Look, Harold,” Banks said. “You’re a dork, all right. You’re young and delusional—”

“—Hey, wait—”

“Twice in one day you tried to evade capture from armed police detectives,” Banks said.

Zimsky rolled his eyes and shrugged.

“But you’re not stupid,” Banks said. “That’s why I think you wanted to get caught.”

Zimsky gnawed on his thumbnail. He looked scared, but he wasn’t talking.

“You’re actually a decent kid, but you got pulled into something and now you’re in over your head. Am I right?”

Zimsky opened his mouth to say something, then shut it and stared at the ceiling.

“Okay,” Banks said. He pulled a brown folder from the box on the floor. “Know what this is?”

“Amazing Spider Man number 618?” Zimsky said hopefully.

“Everything’s a joke, is it?” Banks said. He opened the file, flipped to the third page. “It’s Ross Ryerson’s autopsy report. Let’s see: cause of death, asphyxiation. Sixteen hours later, stab wound to the heart, badge number carved into his chest. That’s what you reported. That’s your signature on the page.”

Zimsky cleared his throat. “Yes.”

Leo ruffled the pages. “What’s this? No mention Ryerson’s missing fingers. I wonder what that could mean?”

It had the desired effect. Zimsky paled and shifted in his seat.

“I checked Ryerson’s corpse at the morgue, while my partner was reading you your rights. Seems like a detail as important as missing appendages would have made it into an autopsy report. You know what the penalty for perjury is, Harold?” Banks asked.  

“Should I guess?”

“Five to ten years,” Banks told him. “How about the sentence for assaulting an officer?”

“Um—?”

“Five to ten years.” Banks said again. “How about interfering with a police investigation? Aiding a fugitive? Fraud? And why would an ME remove fingers from a corpse?”

“I know that one,” Zimsky said. “To prevent the confirmation of identity.”

“Temporarily," Banks added. Then said, "Did you cut off Ryerson’s fingers, Dr. Zimsky?”

“No,” he squeaked.

Banks banged the table with his fist. “This isn’t a game, Harold. You’ve got an impressive list of crimes piling up – mugging, burglary, kidnapping, resisting arrest, assault, perjury... murder. You’re guilty of at least three, but my friends out there are building a case for the rest. It’ll be a strong case, too, ’cause they’re good at their jobs and they’re very motivated. You’ve hurt every last one of them.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Zimsky said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Banks said. “It’s all gonna hang on you, unless you start talking.”

“So I’m doomed,” Zimsky said.

“Basically,” Banks said. “But you can start to make it right by telling us what you know.”

Zimsky raked his hands through his moppish hair and blew out a sigh. “I know you won’t understand, but... I gave my word. I’m not gonna talk.”

“You gave your word?”

Zimsky shifted in his chair. “Look, you care about your partner. I get that. And I saw how when I came at you with my light saber, he blocked for you. That’s The True, right there. He’s your point guy, like Han to your Chewbacca, or the Sherlock to your Watson. He’s more than a friend. He’s your family. I totally understand.”

Banks narrowed his eyes at Zimsky. “Right...”

“Well, it’s the same with us. We’re family. We have a pact. So I’m not gonna say anything, because I don’t want them to get hurt.” Zimsky pushed back in his seat and grimaced.

“Even faced with up to twenty-five years in prison?” Banks asked.

Zimsky shrugged. “Look, I’m an odd duck, Detective Banks. In high school, my idea of a sweet Friday night was helping the biology teacher pickle pig fetuses in formaldehyde. I didn’t have friends. I had guys who pantsed me during marching band or gave me swirlies or cripple nipples. But it’s different now—”

“—Yeah, it’s different,” Banks said. “You’re a long, long way from high school. You’re a doctor—”

“That’s just a title, man. I belong to something bigger. I’m sorry about your partner, I am. But my friends are everything to me. I’m not gonna sell ’em out.”

Banks pressed his lips together. “Have it your way, then. When they get caught, maybe you can all have adjoining cells at Sing Sing.”

“Only one problem,” Zimsky said, a faint smile in his eyes.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“They’re never gonna get caught.”

* * *

Delahoy told Beaumont he was going home to change his blood-stained shirt. Mostly, that’s what he’d intended.

He wound up at the Belvedere Hotel instead.

When Officer Dobbs looked like he was going to be inquisitive, Delahoy shut him down with a glare. Dobbs opened the door to Monica’s room, and Delahoy nervously patted a paper-wrapped package in his pocket before stepping inside.

She was by the window, speaking on the phone in Korean, and when she turned, she murmured, “I’ll call you back.” She dropped the phone with a clatter to the table and practically catapulted into his arms.

“See, that’s nice,” he said, drawing her into the folds of his overcoat.  He tried to downplay his elation at her reaction, but the truth was, it made him dizzy, the scent of her hair and the frantic frenzy of her attention. He couldn’t remember when anyone had ever been that happy to see him.

She said, “I saw the news. You found that woman.”

“Yeah, we did. We’re still looking for the guy, so...” He opened his eyes. His vision blurred the room to bright smudges, but he noticed several stacks of printouts on the end of the bed. And a laptop and a printer.

“Hey, uh—”

She held him at arm’s length and peered up into his face. “What happened to you?”

“New ME hit me in the face—”

“—What? Why?” She pushed him into his chair and began to examine his nose. “Are you all right?”

“Ow,” he said, pointing to his face. “I can’t see out of my left eye.”

“You pointed to your right eye,” she said.

“Really?”

 She nodded.

 He sagged into the chair. “Then I have a new symptom.”

Monica sat on the edge of the bed and rested her hands on his knees. “Eric,” she said. “We should talk.”

“Okay, me first,” he said. “There’s this, uh, wedding on Saturday...”

Her forehead wrinkled. “What?”

“My... co-worker, friend, whatever, Cole, he’s getting married. We should go.”

“Are you trying to distract me with a wedding?”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

“Fine.”  He pulled himself upright. “Okay. Your turn. What’s with all the papers?”

“It’s research.”

He glanced again at the stacks of pages. “You’re in protective custody,” he said.

She gave him her _Duh_ look.

He squinted at her. “Where’d all this come from?”

“You didn’t think I’d just sit around all day...”

Eric rubbed his nose and winced. “I assumed you’d take advantage of the free cable—”

“—Please. I can only watch so much of _What Not to Wear_ ,” she said.

“We have that in common,” he said.

She smiled again. _That_ was nice.

“How did you—research?” he asked.

“Officer Dobbs took me to my apartment so I could get my computer and printer. I’ve actually compiled these files over the last six weeks, so today I printed them out.”

Monica passed one of the documents to him. He eyed it sidewise, but the lines of text wibbled and writhed across the page. He handed it back to her. “Sum it up for me, okay, I’m a little concussed.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, it’s just a bruise.”

Eric sent her a sharp look. Then he caught her smirk and understood. She was teasing him. He wondered for the thousandth time why he hadn’t met her sooner.

He said, “Seriously, what is it?”

“Alternative and clinical treatments,” she told him.

He snatched the pages back from her. He brought them close to his face and concentrated on making the wavering text march into straight lines. It was a report detailing some kind of experimental laser treatment. The file contained procedures, survival rates, the number of months in recovery, and full-color illustrations.

Nausea crawled over him. He put the pages aside. “No,” he said.

“No?”

“No. I can’t. Needles, feeding tubes. I can’t...”

“You’d rather die than have a feeding tube?”

“No,” he snapped. He stood up and heard the rustling of the paper package in his coat pocket. “Here,” he said, tossing it to her. “I got you this.”

She caught it awkwardly, opened it, peered inside.

“It’s ginger,” he explained. “The lady at the place said it’s good for... the stuff. The, uh... Anyway I figured since the flowers didn’t go over so well, maybe something practical...”

“That’s very sweet,” she said. But she said it in her semi-sarcastic condescending tone which made him think she either didn’t have a firm grasp on the English language, or she had a very firm grasp on smart-ass and wielded it like a samurai sword.

Either way, he didn’t know how to respond. So he said, “Did you eat?”

“I had dinner about an hour ago. You?”

“Don’t remember,” he said. “Everything tastes like carnations today, so...”

“Interesting,” she said.

He sniffed. “Yeah? For me, not so much.”

She stared up at him. “Really? You readily complain about your symptoms, yet you refuse to consider treatment options. When I do try to talk to you, you either attempt to deflect or distract me. If you just need someone to talk to, you should find a counselor or a Rabbi—”

“—Hey, I’m half-Jewish, okay—”

“—Or maybe someone who’s less invested in your future,” she finished. Now she looked like she might cry, and he was horrified. “What’s the real reason you came to see me tonight, Eric? To talk about your tumor? To ask me to your friend’s wedding? Was it for sympathy because you got hit in the face? Or was it to bring me an over-the-counter morning sickness remedy, because you feel guilty for knocking me up?”

He rocked back on his heels. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “How do you do it? How do you go from being this tiny little vulnerable woman to, like, this frilled lizard lady. On a Harley. With like, flamethrowers—”

“—You came to _me_ for help,” she said, gesturing to the printed pages spread across the bed. “Before the MRI, before our supply closet... thing, you came to me. That means you want to live.”

“Stop,” he said. “Wait. Say that again.”

“You want to live,” she said.

He swore softly. “That’s what Karen said.”

“ _Who_?”

“Karen Delmonte. The ex-girlfriend I was seeing everywhere. She said those exact words.”

“In your _head_?”

“Yes, the hallucination of my ex-girlfriend.” Then he laughed. So hard it hurt him. He found the chair again and collapsed into it. “ _Your greatest ally is your own mind_.” He steepled his hands over his mouth. “She, uh. She led me to you.”

Monica drew his hands down and clasped them with her own. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

“It means...” He let out a sigh. “I don’t want to die.”

She pushed her hands through his hair, ruffling it back from his forehead. “I’ll go with you on Saturday.” She kissed his furrowed brow.

He brought his hands to her hips. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Or whatever.”

“Can you stay?” she asked.

He couldn’t. Not really. Not with Leo interrogating Dr. Zimsky. Not with all of Second Precinct in chaos.

But.

He wasn’t about to tell her no.

* * *

Walsh and Shraeger felt somber with defeat as they entered the precinct, only to find the office in a flurry of activity.

The first thing Walsh noticed was Eddie on the phone at his desk. When they saw Banks talking animatedly to Beaumont and Cole, they jogged over to find out what all the excitement was about.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Shraeger asked.

“Zimsky happened,” Banks said. He tapped a stack of papers against his desktop to neaten them before slipping them into Zimsky’s file.

“What?” Walsh said. “Again?”

“Yeah, but he’s not talking,” Banks said. “We’ve got enough to hold him, though. Perjury and assault on an officer.”

“Oh, wh—” Shraeger looked around. “Delahoy. Where’s Eric?”

“He’s all right,” Beaumont said. “Went home to change. Zimsky busted his nose.”

While they brought Walsh and Shraeger up to speed about Ryerson’s apartment and the trip to the morgue, the sketch artist came in with the composites from the traffic cam footage. Walsh spread the three drawings across Beaumont’s desk for them to see.

“I’ll be damned,” Banks said, pointing to the middle sketch. “That’s Zimsky.”

“Yeah, and that one is definitely Noel Blanch,” Shraeger said.

“And Bachelor Number Three?” Walsh asked.

“No clue,” Banks said. “I’m sending Zimsky down to the Tombs for processing, then dropping these off at the lab for a proper ID.” He tapped the cookie tin and shuddered. “I’ll be back.”

As Banks left, Alvarez joined them. “Just got off the phone with the 5-47. They’re trying to locate Noel Blanch. His secretary said that Blanch has been on an extended tour of the Appalachian Trail since June 30th, that he calls every few days to check in, but no one’s actually seen him in three months. The wife and kid are in Boise, visiting her family.”

“No, he’s been here in the city,” Shraeger said, sweeping a hand over the traffic cam photos.

“Okay, so we have three possible suspects,” Walsh said. “One’s in custody. One’s a mystery. The other is close by, we just don’t know where.”

“And we have seventeen hours to figure it out,” Shraeger said.

“What about Jeff Blanch?” Beaumont asked. “Any leads there?”

Walsh shook his head. “Nah, it’s a dead end.” He massaged his forehead. “He’s not playing the game. He’s a spectator.”

“I’ll put out an All Points for Noel Blanch,” Cole said. “Maybe the uniforms’ll pick him up.”

“Wish I could share in that optimism,” Beaumont said.

“Well, we’ve sent down for transcripts on Zimsky and fingerprints for the... fingers,” Shraeger said. “Now we wait.”

“Yeah,” Walsh said. “We wait until they make the next move.”

* * *

“This is the part of the job I really dislike,” Allison said. “The waiting.”

Jason scooped four slices of extra crispy bacon onto her toast and went to work slicing the tomatoes. “And you know, the moment we get to sleep, that phone’s gonna ring. You want onions?”

“Nah, but some ketchup would be nice,” she said.

“You can’t have ketchup on a BLT,” he said.

“Says who?” She smiled.

“Says the proprietor of this establishment,” he said. “It’s ketchup-ception.”

“Well,” she said, trailing her finger around the edge of her plate. “I’m the customer, so I’m always right.”

“I’m not even going to argue with that,” he said. He cut her sandwich in half and slid the plate across to her. Along with the ketchup.

He poured them each a cup of coffee and sidled onto the barstool beside her.

“You know, Kowalski’s widow—”

“—Hannah, right?—”

“—Yeah. She said he never talked to her about work. He kept their personal life separate from the job.”

“How long were they married?”

Jason shrugged. “Sixteen years, I guess.” He plucked a fry from her plate.

“Must’ve worked for them,” she said. “Were they happy?”

Jason thought for a while before he said, “I don’t know. He never talked about her.”

“It’s like he led a whole other life, isn’t it?”

Jason turned his mug between his palms.

“You all right?” she asked.

He waved his hand. “Sure,” he said. Then, “I mean, he had secrets. She _knew_ he had secrets. She could’ve left. Had plenty of reason to. Why’d she stay?”

Allison said, “Someone I know said he likes a woman with secrets. Maybe she was the same way?”

“Yeah, but were they happy? Was _she_ happy?”

“Jason, what’s this about?”

He picked up his mug, set it back down. “It’s this case. Got me thinking.”

Allison leaned back to look at him. “This sounds pretty serious.”

“Like with us, we’re both on the job.”

“Right...”

“So, the line’s all blurred. Work. Life. Us. It’s all the same,” he said.

“I got no problems with that,” Allison said.

He grinned. “Me neither. Then I think of Nicole. I don’t even know Crumb, but she and Nicole are both at least connected with police work. They know the grit of it, you know? They see it every day, they know the risks. But, what about the others? What about Hannah Kowalski? Or Amy Burch? Does that girl even know what she’s getting into?”

"She loves Henry,” Allison said. “And he adores her. Isn’t that enough?”

He scrutinized her. It seemed incongruous that this tough, sexy powerhouse of a woman who could take him down with her bare hands could still believe with a school girl’s innocence in the strength of love.

Which was probably why he was crazy about her.

But the thing was, he knew more about Henry Cole than she did, and it worried him that Henry might be more like Kowalski than Allison would have ever guessed.

Allison finished her coffee. “You pick up your suit for Saturday?”

“Uh, no,” he said. “Not yet.”

The wedding seemed like a distant dot on the horizon. Right now his mind was clouded with the details of the case. He couldn’t think beyond it, and he wondered, in the light of what had happened with Amy and Nicole, if it might not be a bad thing to postpone it.

When the thought came to him, he almost dismissed it. Then it returned, with friends.

“The wedding,” he murmured.

Allison gave him an odd look. “Yeah? What about it?”

“We’re the targets. We’ll all be there,” Jason said. A mixture of excitement and dread filled him as the pieces clicked into place. “I think I figured it out. I think they’re gonna hit the wedding.”

END OF PART THREE


	4. Special Instructions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Walsh manages to foil the Hand Writing Killer's next target by finding clues set up in the chapel where Henry and Amy were to be married. However, the clues reveal further layers of deception and even more questions. As the plot becomes ever more personal, Delahoy in particular begins to feel the strain, but Shraeger comes up with a plan to finally draw their nemesis out.

_Second Squad, this is dispatch. The mime on_ _4th Avenue_ _who locked himself in an invisible box is now presenting a real traffic hazard. Be advised, he does not respond to invisible keys._

 

“Shraeger,” Walsh said, catching her arm as he rushed in. He pulled her into the break room.

She protested, “I was just heading to the hospital, Nicole’s awake...”

He closed the door. “They’re gonna hit the wedding,” he said. “While we were out searching trains, they were busy setting up something at the chapel.”

Shraeger was nodding. She said, “How do you know?”

“Hunch. But if they’ve got a beef with the Second and they’ve been targeting our loved ones, wouldn’t it make sense—”

“—To hit us when it would hurt us most,” Shraeger said.

Walsh said, “Beaumont says the church is literally around the block—”

“—He said they wanted it close by so we’d all have a chance to attend,” Shraeger said. “And our perps definitely tracked the details for this wedding. It’s in the surveillance files they kept on Amy. It’s, um, First Chinese Baptist, right?”

“Yeah. So Beaumont called Cole. He’s at home with Amy, but he’ll meet us at the church once Hancock gets there.”

“Okay, we’ll check it out and talk to Nicole after,” Shraeger said.

* * *

Eric Delahoy leaned against the headboard. Leo had called twice, but Eric put the phone on vibrate and left it on the bedside table.

His head ached less. His nose was tender to the touch so he resolved to not touch it. The hotel pillows felt soft against his shoulders, and the starched sheets smelled faintly like the sea. He was tired, but oddly rested, like he was in some kind of limbo state. He decided not to examine it too closely.

They’d managed to scatter Monica’s printouts across the floor. He thought about at least moving them to the table, but moving meant he’d have to expend energy, and for the moment, he was against that.

The shower shut off. Moments later, Monica appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a towel.

“Hey, Mamma Mia,” he said. He wondered if that was weird. She cut her eyes at him like she wondered the same thing. “I was about to call down for some juice, you want anything?”

She moved through the room, snatching up her clothes, snapping the creases from them with quick, efficient motions, which made him wonder, _Was she angry? Had he screwed up again?_ Really it mystified him; what could he have done this time?

Then she said, “Tea would be nice. Hot tea?”

“Yeah, okay.”

As he reached for the room phone, she kissed his forehead, pulled her bra from the lampshade, and returned to the bathroom.

He called in their order. When he hung up, Monica was at the mirror, flossing.

He watched for a minute, then said, “Hey-a, you floss every night?

“I’d better,” she said. “My father’s a dentist.”

He chuckled softly.

“What?”

He scratched his ear. “I don’t know which is more endearing – the fact you floss ’cause your Dad says so, or that when we said to pack in a hurry, you remembered to grab that.”

She met his eyes in the mirror. “Are you just gonna watch me?”

“Yeah, you mind?”

“A little,” she said. “I’m _flossing_.”

He bit his lip. “Yeah you are.”

She tossed the spool of floss onto the sink and leaned against the door jamb.

“Your Dad’s a dentist,” he said. “That explains it.”

Monica came to the end of the bed. “What’s does that mean?”

“You got a nice smile. Y’know, when you show it.”

She folded her arms. “You can talk.”

“I _smile_.”

“You grimace.”

“Just a guess, could be the headaches,” he said. “Here, wait, I got one. Ready? It’s too bad people can’t donate teeth ’cause mine are still in pretty good shape.”

“Eric—”

“—Wait, wait, one more.” He coughed a laugh. “Make sure you teach our kid to floss, ’cause I read once it’s linked to a long and healthy life.”

Monica tilted her head. “You done?”

He glowered up at her. “Yes.”

Clinging to her towel, she kneed across the bed and knelt beside him. “You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she said. “It’s very unattractive.”

He rolled his eyes to meet hers. “You really wanna go there, Miss I’m-Nobody’s-Type?”

“Okay.” She re-tucked the top of her towel. “It’s just... you seem pretty alive to me.”

“Yeah, do I?” He grabbed the towel front and pulled her into his arms. She folded herself against him. Her hair clung damply to his chest and the towel was wet and cold.

“’Kay, this has to go,” he said, attempting to unwind her. She struggled playfully and futilely, but before things could get sexy, his phone hummed on the tabletop.

She’d been ready to bite his forearm. Instead she said, “Shouldn’t you get that?”

“It’s Leo.”

“Right,” Monica said. “Your _partner_. He might have news about the case.”

Eric rubbed his forehead. “If I answer, I’ll have to go.” He sighed. “I don’t want to go.”

“Answer and tell him,” she said. “He’ll worry.”

Eric considered a moment, and then nudged the phone further from reach. “He’ll worry either way,” he said. “Now. Where were we?”

“Right... here,” she said. She grazed his arm with her teeth.

“There? Already?”

She nodded.

“Okay.” He switched off the light.

* * *

Leo hung up. It was late. Eric was probably asleep. He decided to let the man rest. He wondered how physically taxing a brain tumor must be. He realized he didn’t know much about it, or even cancer in general. He’d always been more concerned with contagious diseases, the kinds that sneak in on improperly sanitized drinking glasses or on the grubby fingers of under-washed toddlers.

Meanwhile his partner walked around with a cancerous lump in his brain. Leo tried to imagine what the tumor must look like and came up with a gelatinous mass of blood-red tentacles clawing through Eric’s brain.

Leo shook himself. Why would he even try to imagine _that_?

“So the guy needs rest,” Leo said to himself. “I can give him rest.”

A moment later, Leo saw Shraeger and Walsh pull into the fire lane in front of the church. He got out of the car and jogged over to them.

Shraeger said, “We called ahead, the caretaker’s meeting us. She said there have been deliveries for the wedding, but nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. Also, big surprise, the church doesn’t have security cameras.”

“Of course,” Banks said. They started up the front steps. “Now get this. Got the fingerprints back from the fingers—”

“—And?” Walsh said.

“They’re not Ryerson’s,” Banks said.

“Whose are they?” Shraeger asked.

“Guy named Benjamin Yuri, no known address, no living relatives...”

“Homeless guy,” Walsh said.

“Another sad New York statistic,” Banks said.

They huddled against the cold under the glare of the streetlight outside the chapel door.

“Okay,” Shraeger said. “Our perps kill a guy no one will miss. They then lop off his fingers, stab out his heart, and scrawl the badge number of a police detective into his chest.”

“That’s a brand new level of twisted,” Banks said.

“But then our guy Zimsky fakes the autopsy report,” Walsh said. “Says the body is Ryerson’s instead of Yuri’s. Why?”

Shraeger’s brow creased. “They wanted us to think Ryerson is dead?”

“But Ryerson isn’t dead,” Walsh said.

“Right,” Shraeger said.

“So Zimsky was right when he said he didn’t cut off Ryerson’s fingers,” Banks said. “But I don’t get it. Why would Ryerson fake his death?”

“And why would Zimsky help him?” Shraeger asked.

“Maybe Ryerson’s part was done,” Walsh said. “Maybe he wanted out?”

Cole and Beaumont pulled up then. They joined the others and Banks brought them up to speed on the new information.

Beaumont said, “Ryerson’s the third guy from the traffic cam footage. He’s gotta be.”

“It would make sense,” Walsh said. “Blanch knew Ryerson. This connects Ryerson to Zimsky. They’re working together.”

“The way Zimsky talks about Blanch and Ryerson, plus the carved badge number on the body... it’s starting to sound like a cult,” Banks said. “Very Manson family, and every bit as morbid as that comparison would entail.”

“And they’ve targeted us,” Shraeger said. “We think they’re gonna try something at the wedding. I mean, it fits their pattern. And while we were all out this afternoon searching for Nicole, they had the perfect opportunity to slip under our notice.”

“Let’s go in and search,” Walsh said. “Cole, you’d be the one to know if anything’s out of place.”

“Well,” Cole said, coloring slightly. “Amy did all the planning herself. She’ll be so upset if anything goes wrong.”

Beaumont patted his arm. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

* * *

The caretaker was a middle-aged Pakistani woman named Dari Anjum who let them into the storage area in the basement level beneath the chapel.

“This is where we keep our standard wedding equipment,” Ms. Anjum explained as she led them down a narrow hallway lined with collapsed banquet tables. “We have an arbor, a chocolate fountain, a buffet service. Mr. Cole, your wedding is the next on our calendar, so we’ve moved all of your materials to the staging area, this way.”

They continued through a semi-dark reception area that looked as though it may once have doubled as an indoor basketball court. Banks and Walsh split away from the group and searched the perimeter of the room. Shraeger and Beaumont investigated the stage area on the opposite end.

“Just so we’re clear,” Banks said to Walsh. “We’re searching for...”

Walsh trained his flashlight beam into the corner and shrugged. “Could be anything. Could be a chess piece. Could be a bomb.”

Banks sneered. “Thanks for that.”

“No problem.”

Cole followed Ms. Anjum into the staging area, which was basically a glorified pantry. “Ms. Anjum,” he said. “You mentioned deliveries over the last few days. What sorts of things are we talking about?”

“Linens arrived this morning. The caterer dropped off serving pieces at 11,” Ms. Anjum said. She pulled a clipboard from the wall. “Here’s the manifest. The pages in back are the invoices. The companies have us sign off on anything we receive. Security against theft.” She smiled and bowed her head. “Even though we’re a church, we are still human, no? We check everything according to the list.”

Beaumont and Shraeger appeared in the doorway. “Stage is clear,” Beaumont said. “Walsh is checking the rigging.”

Cole scanned the manifest. “This one here,” he said, pointing. “The hand-written one – _Special Instructions_. Can you show me what that is?”

Ms. Anjum’s forehead wrinkled. “Well, I—” She flipped through several pages on the manifest. “—Here it is. Listed under _During Ceremony_. I suspect they would have delivered that to the chapel.”

Shraeger asked, “Who signed for this delivery?”

“Reverend Chin,” Ms. Anjum said.

“Check the time,” Beaumont said.

Cole nodded. “12:14 p.m. I was with Amy...”

“And we were searching for Nicole in Queens,” Shraeger said.

Walsh and Banks arrived. “Backstage is clear,” Walsh said.

“Nothing unusual in the reception area, either,” Banks said.

“We found this,” Shraeger said, passing the manifest to Walsh.

“Recognize the handwriting?” he said.

Shraeger swallowed. “Yep. Same as the vics from yesterday.”

“You say this – whatever it is – it’s upstairs in the chapel?” Walsh asked Ms. Anjum.

She touched a hand to her forehead. Flustered, she asked, “Is it something dangerous? Has someone done something to our church?”

“We don’t know that, ma’am. Not yet,” Walsh said. “How long have you been on duty tonight?”

“Oh, I live here,” she said. “But I do the Meals on Wheels until 5 p.m. What could be in the chapel?”

“There’s no description on the manifest, so...” Walsh said. “You’re gonna go outside now with Detective Banks, all right? We’ll go search the chapel. Leo, check your radio.”

Banks plucked the walkie from his belt and tested it. “We’re good,” he said with a nod.

“Okay, let’s go.”

* * *

She ordered hot tea, then wanted ice.

Eric thought about pointing out how illogical this was, but dismissed the idea, feeling that some unspoken rule for honoring all post-coital requests had been invoked.

This is how he wound up in the vending area of the seventh floor of the Belvedere in his boxers, socks, and his blood-stained, half-buttoned shirt... much to the amusement of Officer Maynard, who’d switched off with Dobbs at 8 p.m.

As the ice bucket filled, Eric pressed his forehead against the cool metal and listened with muzzy satisfaction to the drone of the machine. The door opened, snapping him back to reality. He gave the woman an apologetic grimace before taking ice bucket from the hopper.

Then he realized he recognized her.

“Hey I know you,” he said.

She cast an uncertain glance over her shoulder, checking her exit in case she had to run. _Good girl_ , he thought. _She was under protective custody, after all._

He held up a hand. “Ms. Kowalski, I’m Eric Delahoy. I work at the Second Precinct. I knew your husband.”

She uttered a relieved laugh. “Of course. From the funeral. You were there with your partner. Was it...Larry?”

“Leo,” Eric said.

“Right. Leo Banks.”

“That’s right.”

“You, uh...” she pointed at his collar. “You’ve got blood on you.”

He grinned. “Hit in the face.”

Her forehead creased in sympathy. “Occupational hazard, right?”

“Sure,” Eric chuckled. “So, uh... who’s on your watch tonight?”

“Officer Hanover,” she said. She inclined toward the door to peer out into the hallway. “He’s just there. I had to stretch my legs and move around a bit. It’s so uncomfortable, being cooped up under lock and key.” Then her eyes widened. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m grateful, really. You’ve all done so much for me. It’s just... That tiny room, it’s... well, it’s not home.”

Eric felt the embarrassing sting of tears in his eyes. He blinked to clear them, hoping that she wouldn’t comment, that she’d simply fill her ice bucket and go.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Allergies.” He cleared his throat. “We’re gonna catch this guy, Ms. Kowalski. Soon, so you can go back home.” His voice broke on the last word.

“I know you will,” she said.

He stared at her, wondering, how could she _know_ that? What faith could she impart in him, when here he stood, basically in his underwear, hiding out from the implosion that was his life? She didn’t know him. She certainly wouldn’t know that in his thirteen years on the force, Eric had never met a bigger dick than Burt Kowalski, that he and Leo actively avoided working with him, that the one time they did get snagged into Kowalski’s dirty little cobweb, well, Eric was pretty sure Leo never fully recovered.

Then Eric struggled then to put Hannah Kowalski into a context with Burt that would make any kind of sense. Here she was, homemade-cookie nice, while Burt was more the club-you-in-the-face-with-a-service-revolver kind of guy. She didn’t know that when Kowalski died and Shraeger came to Second Squad, they hadn’t wasted any time putting the memory of Detective Kowalski behind them.

Hannah interrupted his thoughts. “You know, I remember you,” she said. “You’re the one who took the shotgun blast. The kid who stabbed Burt, he also fired on you...”

“No, he missed,” Eric said, his usual protest.

“He didn’t miss,” she said. “He killed Burt. He would’ve killed you.” Her eyes glistened. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

Eric found himself paralyzed. _Lucky_ , he thought. _Lucky?_

She squeezed his arm. A heartbeat later Hanover’s face appeared in the oval window behind her. He opened the door and acknowledged Delahoy with a nod.

“Detective,” he said. “Everything okay?”

Eric straightened. “Oh yeah, we’re good,” he said. “Machine’s slow.” He took Hannah’s empty ice bucket and placed his full one into her hands.

“Thank you,” she said. Officer Hanover escorted her back down the hall.

Eric filled the ice bucket and returned to their room.

* * *

Monica sat at the table, stirring her tea into the steaming water. She had the TV on – some romantic comedy about a couple in Paris. She’d neatened all the printouts into a stack and placed them under his phone on the endtable. When he came in and set the ice bucket aside, she talked to him as he crossed the room, some light remarks about the rain on the windows, but the blood was rushing in his head so he didn’t hear them.

He bent and kissed her, fiercely, breathlessly, like it was the last thing he’d ever do. She brought her arms around his neck and he lifted her. She made a muffled sound of surprise, and he realized he’d always wanted to do that, to sweep a girl off her feet and into his bed. It was everything he hoped it would be, and couldn’t think of why he’d never tried it before.

Stupid reasons, probably. Fear, and the persistent belief that there would always be another opportunity.

He eased onto the bed with her. She stared up at him, all solemn-eyed and somber, one eyebrow quirked like a question mark.

“I like you,” he said.

“I gathered,” she answered.

“When this is over, we should spend more time together.”

She groaned. “ _More_ time?”

“Stop it, I’m serious,” he said. “I can never tell if you’re joking.”

“Could be the tumor pressing down on the humor sensing center of your brain...”

He narrowed his eyes. She narrowed hers back.

“Could be you’re perfect,” he said.

Monica smiled.

 _So maybe he was lucky_ , he decided. Lucky to have found what some people wait their whole lives to find but never do. He had only waited _most_ of his. With that realization, he figured they could hide out together just a little while longer.

* * *

They entered the chapel, guns drawn but held low. It was a modest space, clean, unadorned, with accents of matte black and gold. The pews were upholstered with worn velvet that matched the threadbare rugs.  At the back of the chapel stood a simple wooden altar, and behind it, a piano, a raised dais for the choir and an antiquated sound system.

“NYPD,” Walsh called into the gloom. “Come out now, show us your hands.”

They waited in tense silence. After a thirty count, Walsh gestured to Shraeger. She turned on the lights, and they entered the chapel with Walsh and Shraeger taking the flanks and Cole and Beaumont heading up the center aisle.

The place was empty. They met at the altar and Beaumont headed into the choir loft while Walsh checked the piano.

“I don’t see anything out of place,” Cole said.

“Another diversion?” Beaumont said, coming alongside him.

“Please Lord, I hope not,” Cole said.

“No, something _was_ delivered here,” Walsh said. “Could be small, a device, maybe?”

“Wait, wait...” Shraeger said. She pointed to a legal-sized envelope on the pulpit. “The manifest said _During_ Ceremony. What if it’s this?”

Cole stepped forward. He lifted the envelope like it was a loaded gun.

“Gloves,” Shraeger said. Beaumont passed him one and he slipped it over his hand.

He worked the clasp on the envelope withdrew a Hoyle playing card of the Queen of Hearts onto which a brass key had been taped. Under the key, in neat hand-written letters, were four words:

Dear Navan,

You’re Welcome.

Cole trembled. He sent a frantic look to Walsh and Shraeger, who could say nothing at all to ease his mind. Into the anxious silence, Beaumont said, “Who’s Navan?”

Walsh shook his head. “No idea,” he said. “Maybe another riddle?”

Cole breathed out a barely perceptible sigh of relief. “Maybe,” he agreed.

Beaumont’s attention lingered on Cole a moment more before she said, “Okay, now we have a card and a key?”

“Another piece of the game,” Shraeger said. She raked her hands through her hair. “ _During Ceremony_ ,” she muttered. “What does that mean?”

“Maybe something timed to go off during the wedding?” Beaumont guessed.

“Yeah, but what?” Walsh asked.

Shraeger scanned the windows and the ceiling of the chapel. “Why can’t it be an automaton in a cake or surprise musical guest?”

“With our luck, it’d be Creed,” Walsh murmured, and Shraeger suppressed a laugh.

“It would have to be something close to here,” Cole said. “Did we miss anything? Any closets or compartments?”

Shraeger’s eyes settled on a section of paneling above the main doors. It was grated like a pair of shutters, and she could just see a tiny hook latch keeping them closed. “Walsh,” she nudged him and pointed.

He saw it, nodded, and then his eyes drifted as he turned to find a point behind the altar, above the choir loft.

“There,” Walsh said, indicating a long, horizontal cylinder suspended from the ceiling. “It’s a screen, right?”

“Must be a projection booth,” Cole said. “But I didn’t see any access...”

Walsh unclipped his radio and paged Banks.

“Hey, ask Ms. Anjum where the stairway is to the projection booth,” Walsh said.

After a few moments of static, Banks came back. “She says the booth’s been broken for years, they used to show Kung Fu missionary movies...” He paused while she spoke again. Then, “There was a staircase in the closet between the restrooms, but it’s been sealed for as long as she’s been here. There’s no key—”

“—Yeah, we got a key,” Walsh cut in. “Thanks, Leo.” He turned to them. “And we have a door.”

No one moved.

“We gotta decide,” Walsh said. “Are we going to call in the tech unit or check this out on our own?”

Beaumont balked. “Jason, if it’s a bomb, we got no business charging up there—”

“—It’s not a bomb,” Cole said.

“How can you know that?” Beaumont asked.

“It’s meant for me,” Cole said quietly. “I’m Navan.”

Beaumont’s brows knitted in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Color drained from Cole’s face. He backed away from them, shaking his head as he retreated down the aisle. Then he ripped the key from its card and ran.

By the time they caught up to him, he’d unlocked the door but stood frozen on the top step into the projection booth.

“Henry!” Beaumont said. “What’s going—?”

“—Listen,” Walsh said, holding up a hand.

Strained seconds passed before they heard a lilt of female laughter, followed by a man’s voice.

“Is someone up there?” Shraeger whispered.

“We don’t have to go any further,” Cole called down to them, his voice hitching over the words.

Walsh headed up the stairs, only to have Cole block his entrance into the booth. Walsh caught a flicker of light from the top corner of a monitor, and then a man’s voice spoke again. After a handful of syllables, Walsh recognized the slurry drawl of the voice.

Cole’s eyes were wide and wild. He said, “Jason, we can go back downstairs and close the door and pretend...”

Walsh shook his head. “Cole, we can’t...”

Cole’s forehead creased. The female voice was talking now, and though the words were unintelligible, the light tone of enjoyment was unmistakable.

“They don’t know each other,” Cole muttered. He looked over Walsh’s shoulder at Shraeger, and his eyes filled with tears. “They don’t _know_ each other...”

“That’s Amy,” Beaumont realized.

“And Frank,” Cole said, nodding. “Amy and Frank?” His knees buckled and he sat down hard on the step.

This gave them the full view of the video playing on a computer behind Cole. The camera angle showed a wrought-iron bed frame, a mattress bare of everything but one scraggly quilt, under which two people lazily entwined in each other’s arms. Amy Burch and Frank Lutz.

“Oh no,” Shraeger breathed.

Beaumont leveled her eyes on Walsh’s. “Jason, what is this?”

Walsh rolled his shoulders and shook himself. His expression hardened as he stepped past Cole and turned off the video. “It’s evidence,” he said.

* * *

“She’s gone,” Walsh said as he sank into the break room chair. Banks and Shraeger looked up from the file folder between them. “Hancock says she said goodnight to him around nine. When we called at 10:30, he went in and found her place empty.” Walsh glanced at the pages in front of Banks. “What’s that?”

“Zimsky’s school transcripts,” Banks said. “Kid went to college at sixteen – Texas Academy of Math and Science.”

“Mad scientist type,” Walsh said. “Great.”

“Says here he was expelled his junior year, though,” Shraeger said, scanning the file. “Forgery and counterfeiting. He was supplying all his friends with fake IDs—”

“—and using fake dollar bills in the Coke machines,” Banks said. “Enterprising little sneak.”

“Explains Ryerson’s false identity,” Walsh said. “You said _Texas_ Academy..?”

“That’s right,” Banks said.

“Frank Lutz was from Texas,” Shraeger said.  “Jesus, Walsh. How far back does this go?”

“I’m betting all the way to LaGrange,” he answered.

Banks asked, “What happened in LaGrange?”

“Yes, Jason,” Beaumont said from the doorway. “Please tell us...”

Walsh half rose from his seat, but Beaumont raised her hand. “Can you excuse us?” she said.

“I’ll uh...” Banks began.

“No, they can stay,” Walsh said. “It’s down to the four of us right now. We need to stick together.”

Beaumont folded her arms. “You _knew_ ,” she bit out.

“I did,” he answered.

“I didn’t,” Banks put in.

Beaumont plowed over him. “You knew about Frank Lutz, about Navan...?”

“Yes,” Walsh answered.

“And Shraeger?” Beaumont asked.

Shraeger nodded. “I knew, too.”

“But no one told me,” Beaumont asked, her voice growing smaller with each syllable. “Even after Frank shot me and tried to kill Henry?”

“All right, no,” Walsh snapped. “It wasn’t my place. He’s your partner, Allison. He looks up to you, more than anyone. He didn’t want you to find out.”

Beaumont dropped her gaze. Walsh got up to stand before her.

“Now you know,” he said. “But Cole’s devastated for a whole different set of reasons. That’s what we’ve gotta focus on. You can bust my ass later for what I didn’t tell you. Right now, we need to find Amy Burch.”

She swiped at the tear that slipped from her eye and said, “I already put Amy’s info on the wire. If she’s anywhere in this city, they’ll catch the bitch.”

“Allison...” Walsh said.

“Don’t.” Beaumont seemed to curl in on herself, a self-contained tornado. “Just don’t.” She rushed from the room, and Walsh, bewildered, looked from the empty doorway back to Shraeger and Banks.

“Well?” Shraeger said.

“What?” Walsh said.

“Dude,” Banks said. “Go after her.”

“Right.”

When he was gone, Shraeger turned to Banks. She said, “I called Eddie. Nicole’s asleep. He doesn’t want her disturbed.”

“She did spend the morning in a packing crate,” Banks said. “And Cole?”

“Amy’s place,” Shraeger said. “He’s helping the team search for a reason for why she left...” She spread her hands, at a loss for words.

“I know,” he said. “Look, I’m gonna make some coffee—”

“—I’d love some coffee,” Shraeger said.

“Great.” Banks went to the coffee maker and worried over the filters. “How long you gonna be at this?”

“Oof,” Shraeger said. “I’d like to transcribe the video, so, who knows? Anyway, we have sixteen hours before we have to pass this case to the Feds. How could I sleep?”

“Tell me about it.” He poured water into the carafe and within seconds the thick scent of coffee pressed in around them. “I’d like another crack at Zimsky, but he’s the Tombs til morning.”

“You think he’ll talk?”

“I think I can make him,” Banks gave her a tight grin.

“He hasn’t called for a lawyer?” Shraeger said. “That strike you as odd?”

Banks rubbed antibacterial gel over his hands. “The guy’s this whole sphere of weird. That’s the one thing he’s admitted.”

Shraeger scrubbed her stinging eyes. She said, “I just don’t get it. He can’t be a willing scapegoat. What is he getting from this?”

Banks joined her at the table. “This’ll sound strange, but... it seems like he’s enjoying it. Like it’s a game.”

“That can’t just be it, though. Can it? He’s facing real prison time here,” Shraeger said.

“Didn’t faze him,” Banks said. “Kept going on about friendship and belonging to something larger. It was all very _Circle in the Sky_ , y’know?”

“That’s what the mugger told Cynthia Patronelli and Lupe Carbajal. That they were part of something larger,” Shraeger said. “What is this mystery large thing? Is it the game itself?”

“I have no idea,” Banks said. “All I know is that this sniveling geek-boy has hurt people close to us, emotionally and physically, and he’s gonna roast for it.”

Shraeger rubbed her brow. “Not _us_ , though. Not you, not me, not Beaumont. Why? I mean, you’ve read the files, you’ve been here a while. What connects them but not us?”  

“I’d say Kowalski,” Banks began. “Except for Eric. He hated the guy. We’re talking pure loathing. We didn’t work with him if we could help it.”

“But you did work with him?” Shraeger said.

“Back then wasn’t like it is now,” Banks said.

“How so?”

“Like, now we all collaborate on some cases. We help each other out. Back then, that was rare. But this one time, about five years ago, we did a stakeout for Kowalski. Low level crack dealer, Marcus Rothby. We wound up crawling through the sewers.” He dry-retched and shuddered. “It’s true what they say about the rats down there.”

“Did you get the guy?”

“Oh yeah, we brought him in,” Banks said. “He got off, though. Improperly catalogued evidence. Some rookie mislabeled the cache and the case was thrown out. Eric was... well, he was pissed. We did all the dirty work – and I mean that literally—”

“—Oh.” Shraeger stood up.

Banks gave her an odd look. “You all right?”

“You said five years ago?”

“Give or take a few months, yeah,” Banks said. “Hey, the coffee’s ready...”

“I’ll, uh...” Shraeger said. She gestured at the coffee maker, then hurried from the room.

* * *

Henry Cole drifted through Amy’s apartment. The uniforms who came in to sweep the place gave him plenty of room. Officer Hancock had apologized profusely when Cole had arrived, but Cole had numbly dismissed him and continued inside.

That was what he felt. Numb. On the way over, he thought he should feel angry, or mournful, or hurt. But he didn’t. Even as he moved through Amy’s third-floor walk-up, a place she’d only permitted him to enter twice in their entire year-long courtship, he felt nothing but a vague emptiness.

Probably for the best, he decided. Otherwise, the myriad of glass figurines arranged beside the computer on her dresser would have pained him. As would the stack of bridal magazines on her twin-sized bed and the veil draped like a cloud of mist over the corner of her headboard.

The remembrance of the bed in the video punctured through the layers of his malaise. Not this bed, of course, but one Cole recognized. He’d paid for Frank’s “furnished” one-bedroom on Avenue C.

The wrought iron bed was old and squeaked. Frank had made sure Cole knew it, too. The day Cole signed the lease, Frank had leapt onto the bare mattress and kicked the sagging old frame into a rust-shrieking frenzy.

“Hey, Navan!” he’d crooned. “Just like old times, ain’t it? Hey, remember that prostitute down in Ellinger, the one with the Aqua Net tattoo?”

No, Amy’s bed was decked in candy-striped sheets and a goose down duvet. But he had to wonder, had they done it here? Had they lay there together, when all the while, Cole had never touched her, had never gone beyond a reverent goodnight kiss?

“Detective Cole?”

Henry jumped at the sound of the voice. Officer Hancock held up a hand apologetically.

“Yes, go on,” Cole said.

“There’s evidence of a few items taken from the bathroom – toothbrush and the like,” Hancock said. “No signs of struggle or forced entry through the bathroom window. There’s access to a fire escape, which lets out to an alley. Ground unit didn’t see anyone come or go, so we think she went through the neighboring building. There are several abandoned units.”

“All right,” Cole said. “Let’s question the neighbors, see if anyone saw or heard anything.”

“Yes, sir,” Hancock said, and he left.

Cole hovered at the dresser. There was a framed photo of Amy’s Mom and her sisters, along with a menagerie of ceramic woodland creatures. There, beside the computer, stood a slender emerald figure of a cut-glass cat with a gold tiara on its head.

It was bigger than the knight they had in evidence, but it was from the same set. The Queen.

He pulled an evidence bag from his pocket and wrapped it. As he pulled his hand back, he bumped the mouse and the screen saver on the computer dissolved.

Two windows filled the screen. One was an email. Overlapping it was the video file he’d seen at the church, paused within the first few seconds of play, in the moments before they climbed into that wrought-iron bed.

Cole fought the urge to delete the email and trash the attachment. He would have, if he thought it would do her any good.

Then a terrible thought occurred to him. What if they sent the video to other people on her contact list? Everyone she cared about was listed in the address book of her phone: Her parents, her sisters, her cousins and friends.

With wooden fingers, Cole took out his phone and dialed Beaumont. It went to voicemail after the third ring.

“Allison,” he said. “It’s... Henry. I know why Amy left. They mailed the video to her. Probably got her information from her phone.” His throat tightened. He managed to say, “I pray to God they didn’t send it to anyone else, that it ends here with her and with me.”

A pervasive coldness coalesced around him. He felt untethered and adrift, cut away from the soft world that existed, he realized, only in his dreams. Frank had said some people live out in the cold. That was Cole’s reality now.

And he was relieved, because disconnected was the only way he’d get through this. It was the only way he could stay focused and do his job.

* * *

“Allison!” Jason called.

She walked with sharp, mincing steps across the parking lot, her coat pulled tight around her. He called to her again, and she ignored him.

He jogged to catch her. And when he did, his heart broke at the sight of her tears.

“Hey.” He touched her arm and she whirled on him, one fist raised. He backed off a step, knowing full well she could take him if she chose to go that route. But the flash of her anger burned out as quickly as it flared, leaving her trembling, speechless, and chilled.

Jason smoothed the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She hugged her chest and sniffed. “Six months, Jason. It’s been six months since Henry shot Frank Lutz. All that time, you knew?”

“No,” Jason said. He tucked his hands in his pockets. “I knew before, from when Kowalski died. Casey, too. We found files in Burt’s storage unit.”

“Oh.” Allison wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Eight months, then. Did he ask you not to tell me?”

“He didn’t,” Jason said. “But I gave him my word I’d keep his secret.”

“That he’s not even Henry Cole? That he’s someone else. Some... Navan Granger? Who is _he?_ ” Tears filled her eyes again. This time, she let them fall.

“Oh, no... don’t—”

“—It’s not that you didn’t tell me,” she said, tearing away from him. “I get that. It was Henry’s secret. He should have told me. But...”

She closed her eyes. Jason waited, gave her time. She finally drew a ragged breath and whispered, “She broke his heart.”

The words expended the last of her strength. She curled against him, her shoulders rigid as she struggled against her tears. A bitter breeze bore down on them, scattering them with stinging drops of rain. Jason brought his arms around her. He tucked her head under his chin and held her.

After a long while, Allison pressed her palm to Jason’s chest. She said, “Take me home, okay?”

Jason laced his fingers in hers. With a nod, he led her to the car, and then drove her to the diner, where she could lie in his arms and be still and quietly grieve.

* * *

Even though the hospital was well past visiting hours, Shraeger badged her way onto the floor and into the private suites where Eddie Alvarez stood guard over Nicole.

Standing guard was too light a term. Eddie was keeping vigil.

After a quick rap on the door, Eddie poked his head in the hallway.

“Casey,” he said. “You get a break in the case?”

“Maybe. I need to talk to her,” Shraeger said.

“I already told you. She’s not talking to anyone until morning. I cleared it with Sergeant Brown,” he said.

“Eddie, it’s about the Blanch case, the one she’s prosecuting.”

Alvarez pushed through the door, pulling it closed behind him. “I said no,” he told her. He planted his feet and folded his arms like a Sultan.

Shraeger sighed. “Eddie, she’s not even injured—”

“—She’s _traumatized_ , Detective Shraeger,” Alvarez said. His chin twitched, belying his stern facade. “When she’s awake – she can’t stop crying. She was scared, and I was supposed to protect her, and I failed. When she’s asleep, she’s okay. So please go away now so I can watch over my wife.”

“Eddie...”

“Good night,” he said, and went back inside.

She stood in the hallway, her hands knotted into fists, and after a long, long moment, she convinced herself that it could wait until morning.

Besides, she had a sex tape she had to transcribe...

* * *

_Leo._

He snapped awake. He checked his watch. It was after five, and he’d dozed off in his desk chair. He awoke to one of those rare moments when the precinct office was empty. The damp air hung on him, smelling of plaster and old drunk. It was weird, especially since he’d just heard someone say his name, and he was fairly certain it was Eric.

Leo stretched. He closed the case files fanned out on his desk. He scrubbed a hand over his stubbly cheek and decided he could go home, get a shower, grab a quick bite, and get back by the time the Tombs opened at seven.

Then he could take another crack at Zimsky, work the wedding angle, see if that ruffled the guy’s feathers.

He peeled himself from his desk chair. His neck cricked. His bones ached. He felt ridiculous. True, he hadn’t wanted to go home last night, but he also hadn’t wanted to fall asleep at his desk.

Just as Leo’s thoughts were winging to the now-six-hours-old coffee in the break room, his telephone rang.

“Banks,” he answered.

“Hey I need a favor.” Eric.

“Well, a good morning to you, too—”

“—In my locker, there’s a shirt from the cleaners,” Eric said. “I need you to bring it to me.”

Leo scratched his head. “You told Beaumont you went home last night to change.”

“Could be I lied to Beaumont,” Eric said.

“Hold up, where are you?”

“At the Belvedere.” A pause. “With Monica.”

“I thought you needed rest...”

“C’mon, man,” Eric said. “You remember my combination?”

“Of course I remember your combination,” Leo snapped. “Need anything else? Espresso, maybe? Bananas Foster?”

“What’re you talking about, I just need a shirt.”

“Fine,” Leo said.

“Fine.”

Leo hung up the phone. “ _At the Belvedere with Monica_ ,” he muttered. So much for Leo’s shower and shave. He put his phone into his pocket and headed down to the locker room.

* * *

Shraeger met Sergeant Brown on the stairs on her way into the Precinct.

“Sir, Amy Burch slipped protective custody last night after we discovered a video recording of her with Frank Lutz. We found the video in the projection booth of First Chinese Baptist, and based on our preliminary search, it looks as though it was triggered to play when the door to the booth was opened. Pretty sophisticated system, by the looks of it. It was set up by someone who knew what he was doing.”

Sergeant Brown nodded. “That all?”

“No, sir. We also know that the equipment came from the Soho Camera heist back in March. Frank Lutz was tied to that robbery as well. We have a tech unit searching the church, and Cole had a team checking out Amy Burch’s place as well. I also have a potential lead on a connection to Nicole Alvarez. Right now I’m waiting for Eddie to let me speak with her.”

He mulled this over for a moment before he said, “Okay. Take a breath.”

She did.

“You’re lead on this.”

“Me?” Shraeger balked. “Why?”

“Two reasons. One, you’re the only one not tied into this—”

“—Well _actually_ —”

“—And two, as of this moment, you’re the only one here.”

“I am?” She checked her watch. 7 a.m. “Where is everyone?”

Sergeant Brown pursed his lips.

“But we have ten hours left before we have to pass off—”

“I’m well aware,” the Sergeant said. “Get your team together, Detective Shraeger. We’re running out of time.”

* * *

Officer Maynard slotted the card key into the door and rapped lightly before opening it.

Leo stepped into the sunny vista of a standard Belvedere hotel room. The gauzy sheers diffused the sunlight into a radiant glow around a table laden with pastries, fruit, and orange juice. There sat Eric, unshaven, black-eyed, and rumpled in his trousers and undershirt. Despite that, he somehow looked revitalized. Across from him sat Monica Crumb, all crisp and petite in her lavender button-down shirt and purple cardigan. She looked smug.

“Leo!” Eric said, far more exuberant than... ever. Eric stood and gestured to him. “You know Monica. Monica, Leo.”

“Doctor Crumb,” Leo said flatly.

“Detective Banks,” she said back. He didn’t like her tone.

Leo passed the shirt to Eric, who immediately pulled it on.

“Thanks, man, I owe you,” Eric said.

“No, it’s...”

Eric began to search around the room. “Hey, you seen my...?”

Seeming to read his thoughts, Dr. Crumb got up and rummaged through the bedclothes. She found his tie under the pillow and Leo watched in mute bewilderment as she stood on tiptoe to loop it around Eric’s neck. Then she busied herself with straightening his collar, adjusting the knot, and smoothing his sleeves. All the while, Leo was thinking, _They’ve been together for twenty-four hours and suddenly they’re June and Ward Cleaver?_

“Okay,” Eric said. He slipped on his coat, his gun, his badge. “Stay put, okay?”

“Where will I go?” Dr. Crumb deadpanned.

Eric squinted at her. She smirked. He kissed her.

“I’ll see you,” he said. He squeezed her hand before he left.

Fifty paces down the hallway, Leo finally managed words. “Well,” he said. “That was... domestic.”

“Don’t start.”

They continued to the elevator. Leo stabbed the down button. “No. You know what, I’m entitled. Whole precinct’s falling apart and you’re shacking up—”

“—Look, she asked me to stay, I’m not gonna deny her. She’s the mother of my child.”

Leo stammered. “Don’t say that. You know how you sound?”

Eric gave a light shrug.

Leo punched the elevator button again. “You haven’t seen proof.”

“Will you stop? She has proof. She took tests. She confirmed with her doctor. Also, morning sickness—” Eric shuddered. “—It’s like the Exorcist revisited. Why anyone would willingly subject themselves to—”

“—I cannot believe you got her pregnant.”

The elevator doors parted and they stepped in. Eric said, “It’s my brain that’s fouled up, Leo, not my male parts.”

Leo shook himself. “I can’t talk to you.”

“All right, it’s fair,” Eric said. “I went out last night and didn’t come home. You have reason to be angry.”

“Damned right I do,” Leo groaned.

They stepped out into the lobby and then crossed out to the street. The city bustled around them, loud and bright and brash. A haze of mist hung in the air, carrying with it the mingled scents of pastries and street grease. Strangely, it made Leo hungry. Then he remembered he hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday.

Oh, but Eric had breakfast... probably at tax payer’s expense. And Leo couldn’t really pinpoint why it was that it made him so upset.

Leo steered them to a vendor cart, where he ordered coffee and a kolache that would probably give him trichinosis. They continued in silence while Leo scarfed his pastry.

Eric said, “Hey, I ran into Hannah Kowalski last n—”

“—How long?” Leo cut in.

“What?”

Leo halted. “How long do you have?”

“Really? This is information you need?”

“Yes. Tell me now. How long?”

Eric gestured with one hand. “Six months—”

“—Six months is...” Leo’s face clouded with a series of muddled emotions before he landed on, “It’s not good but—”

“—That was eight months ago,” Eric finished. “So I have... negative two months. Does this better things up for you? Hm. Does this make you happy?”

“No,” Leo said. “No, I’m not happy.”

“Yeah, well... Thing is, Monica and me,” Eric said. “Maybe it’s not the great tragedy you imagine. Maybe it’s one of the few things in my life that doesn’t feel like a dry popsicle stick jabbed in my eye—”

“— _Dude,_ ” Leo protested. He tried to stalk away, but wound up sort of listing to port.

“Leo, look at me,” Eric said.

Leo did, but with difficulty. It wasn’t easy, looking into the face of your closest friend and knowing that his days were numbered.

Eric nodded, both grateful and grave. “Let me have this, all right? Don’t... Don’t judge it. Don’t pull it apart. Don’t question. Just. Let me have this. Whatever _this_ is.”

Anger boiled in Leo again. His stomach twisted into greasy knots and he thought he just might lose his kolache, so he stalked off, nearly bowling people over as he passed, and how could Eric ask him to just be okay with these things? Such sweeping changes needed to be pondered and prodded, and that was what Leo did. He thought things through. He was careful. He was cautious. He studied death, was appropriately fearful. But he wasn’t the one who was _dying_.

It wasn’t fair. Eric was younger than him. He had no warning. No predisposition. No family curse. Eric was dying and Leo was _furious_. 

Leo turned back to find Eric standing where he’d left him, his eyes closed, his hand pressed to his forehead. The crowd parted around him, as New Yorkers always did, as if he wasn’t there at all.

Leo couldn’t leave him like that. He couldn’t leave him at all. So he returned to where Eric stood and tried to think of something wise and clever to say.

Instead, he said, “I’m sorry, okay?”

Eric opened his eyes. He lowered his hand. Leo caught a faint glimmer of relief in his expression.

Leo said, “So you spent the night with Doctor Crumb?”

“Yes I did,” Eric said.

“How’d that go?”

“It’s Monica,” Eric said.

“Yeah, don’t push it,” Leo said. He pressed his lips into a thin smile. “You ready to go a few rounds with the new ME?”

“Zimsky?” Eric asked. “What’d he do this time?”

“So many things,” Leo said, shaking his head. “It’s just better to show you.”

* * *

Walsh met Shraeger at the front entrance of MemorialHospital.

“How’s Beaumont?” she asked as they entered the building.

“Not good,” Walsh said. “She and Cole are checking with Amy’s parents. No one’s heard from her. Tech unit says that the moment Cole used the key to the projection room, the computer emailed copies of the video to Amy’s contact list. It was sent out as a blind CC, too, so it’s fair to assume Blanch knows we found the video. It’s uh,” Walsh scrubbed his forehead. “It’s a nightmare.”

“Yeah.”

They showed their badges at Admission and took the elevator to the fourth floor.

“Walsh,” Shraeger said as they entered the floor bound for Nicole Alvarez’ room. “I’ve been thinking about why these guys are targeting us.”

“Okay.”

“Kowalski got Ryerson the job at Attica, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“So then, why would Ryerson work with Noel Blanch against Kowalski?” Shraeger asked.

“Maybe Blanch had something over Ryerson?” Walsh suggested.

“Or... what if Blanch thinks we’re all like Kowalski?” Shraeger said.

“Crooked, you mean,” Walsh said.

“Right,” she said. “I talked with Banks last night about a case he and Delahoy worked with Kowalski five years ago – a stakeout for a guy named Rothby—”

“—Yeah, I remember that,” Walsh said. “Guy got off on a technicality.”

Shraeger lowered her voice. “Think about it. From an outsider’s perspective... Banks and Delahoy helped Kowalski with the botched investigation that let Rothby off in the first place. You were Kowalski’s partner with your own ties to Blanch. And Cole’s past is so checkered he might as well be a NASCAR driver. What if Blanch thinks we’re all crooked cops?”

“And he wants to take us all down,” Walsh said.

Shraeger nodded. “Maybe Ryerson even knew enough about Kowalski and Cole to corroborate Blanch’s suspicions...”

“...And Blanch persuaded Ryerson to help him out. It’s possible,” Walsh said. “But it doesn’t help us find him.”

“Maybe it does,” she said. They stopped in the hall across from Nicole’s room. “All this time, we’ve been on the defensive. Blanch moves, we react. But what if we turn the tables, set up a play of our own?”

Walsh frowned. “Would if we could, Case. How’re we gonna draw them out?”

Shraeger folded her arms. “We have Zimsky,” she said.

Walsh looked doubtful. “Yeah... but we have to figure Zimsky’s right where Blanch wants him. Zimsky could’ve run when we cut him loose, but he stayed.”

“Exactly,” Shraeger said. “Blanch wants Zimsky near the precinct. So he can hear what our plays are and report back.”

“Zimsky’s a watcher,” Walsh said. “So. We set up our meeting with Rothby, then let it slip to Zimsky—”

“—Who can let it slip to one of our many recidivists,” Shraeger said.

“And then we stage a play of our own,” Walsh said. “So that’s what we’re here for...”

Shraeger nodded again. “After talking with Banks last night, I had a thought. What if Rothby worked for Noel Blanch? And, just maybe, Rothby worked an outside deal with Kowalski. Rothby got off and Kowalski used the evidence to frame Noel Blanch.”

“That’s a stretch,” Walsh said. “But the time frame fits. Maybe Kowalski traded up the food chain to get to Noel.”

“Exactly. And if Nicole has a witness that can convict Jeff Blanch, maybe it’s the same guy who sold out Noel Blanch five years ago,” Shraeger said.

“Markus Rothby,” Walsh said, nodding his agreement.

Shraeger grinned, her hand poised to knock on Nicole’s door. “Henceforth known as the bait,” she said.

* * *

“Allison,” Cole said. “Are you gonna talk to me, ever?”

She opened the door to the church and stepped from the stinging brightness of the morning into the solemn semi-dark of the chapel. The place looked different by daylight, shabbier and less sinister. The tech team was busy photographing and cataloguing the camera equipment from the projection booth, and at the altar, Reverend Chin was speaking with Ms. Anjum and a uniformed officer about what had happened the night before.

Beaumont stared up at her partner. His face seemed so open and honest. Even with all he’d lost in the last twelve hours, he still looked hopeful, almost serene. But it was a lie. He was hiding behind that tranquil facade, and she had to wonder what kind of person could so easily slip behind that mask when everything was falling down around him.

“I haven’t decided,” she said.

The uniformed officer motioned, and he and Reverend Chin came over to meet them.

The officer said, “Rev. Chin says there was a break-in eight months ago. They didn’t report it because all that was taken was a small collection box and a crate of donated toys.”

“Donated toys?” Beaumont asked.

“Yes,” Rev. Chin said. “Stuffed animals, games. We don’t keep an inventory because we give most away quite quickly. Anyway, a few days later your friend came in and volunteered to change the locks for us, free of charge.”

“My _friend_ ,” Cole stated flatly.

“Yes, the one who came to see you and Amy that first day we met to speak about your wedding.” Reverend Chin bowed his head. “I am very sorry about what happened...”

Cole shook his head. “Frank changed the locks,” he said. “Frank – my _friend_.”

“It’s all right, Reverend,” Beaumont said. “We thank you for your time.” She guided Cole back outside.

They were halfway back to the precinct when Cole began to mutter, “ _Before I was afflicted I went astray, but now I keep Your word. I know, O Lord, that Your judgments are right, and that in faithfulness You have afflicted me_.”

Beaumont gripped his arm and swung him to face her. “Stop it,” she hissed. “Just stop.”

“This is my fault,” Cole said. “I brought this upon us. I’m being punished for the wickedness of my youth and the lies of my present life.”

“You haven’t brought this on us,” Beaumont spat. “ _They_ are the bad guys—”

“—And I was Frank’s protégé,” Cole interrupted. “He was trying to sway me to his side.”

She took his shoulders and gave him a good shake. “You didn’t take his side. Now his friends are out to hurt you, to hurt _us_ because of that choice. But you have friends, too. Henry.”

Cole’s mask of calm crumpled for the barest second before he straightened again. “Thank you, Allison,” he said.

She nodded and let him go. When they started walking again, she said, “I don’t know how you’re doing this. How you can have suffered so much loss and still be standing and talking and not falling apart.”

“Sometimes we have to fall apart so we can be remade,” Cole said.

“Oh, Henry...” Beaumont smiled. “You really believe that crap?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes I do.”

Beaumont sighed. “I’m so sorry. About Amy—”

“—Oh, don’t—”

“—She doesn’t even know what she’s lost.”

Cole blinked to clear his eyes.

“Let’s go catch these jerks, huh?” Beaumont said.

He nodded and followed her into the precinct.

* * *

“Hey, hey, the gang’s all here,” Walsh said when Cole and Beaumont entered the briefing room. He and Shraeger had shoved two hexagonal tables together so that they could all sit and puzzle over the various pieces of the case.

Banks and Delahoy spread the Zimsky files between them. They argued quietly and incessantly over what interrogation tack to take when Zimsky returned from the Tombs.

Cole added the cut-glass chess piece from Amy’s apartment to the list of catalogued evidence. He and Beaumont joined the group, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other, doing what they did best: Sizing people up.

 _Yeah_ , Walsh thought. _They didn’t look so good._

“All right,” Shraeger said, distributing copies of a new document around the table. “This is our plan. Read it once through, decide whether you’re on board, and then we’re shredding these pages.”

Delahoy skimmed the first page, flipped to the second, and then blew a thin stream of air from his lips. “You realize this is insane, no?”

Banks looked up from his packet as well. “And that all these connections are circumstantial.”

“Unless we can draw them out. We’ve got connections for Zimsky, but we’re still short on bringing this home to Noel Blanch,” Walsh said. “Which is what this is all about.”

“And if we can’t,” Shraeger added. “We lose and the FBI picks up where we left off. We’re running out of options...”

Delahoy scrubbed his forehead. “Forced into a corner, you mean.”

Banks nudged him. “C’mon, man,” he whispered.

“No, it’s uh—it’s risky,” Delahoy said, massaging his scalp. “Clandestine meeting in a parking garage, we’re talking poor lighting, too many exits, not enough ground coverage... But hey, it’s the job, right?” He uttered a nervous laugh. “No, no, it’s fine. Continue.”

“Oh...kay?” Shraeger cast a worried look at Banks. He grimaced in response, and she decided to carry on. “We need to round up some of our regulars, get them in the hallways and in holding. We don’t want to use CIs, though, because we have to figure Zimsky’s already got a tap into that network.”

“I’ve got a few leads there,” Beaumont said. “Couple of newbie thugs who owe us a thing or two.”

“Good,” Walsh said.

Cole, who until then had been reading his briefing packet, lifted his hand. When Shraeger acknowledged him, he asked, “You watched the tape?”

Shraeger’s face colored. “Uh. Yes,” she stammered. “I, uh, transcribed the whole thing.”

“Did she know?” Cole asked.

“About this?”

“About Blanch or Zimsky or _any of this_? Was she connected to this?” Cole asked.

Shraeger shook her head. “There’s no indication. It seems—” She cleared her throat. “—It seems that Frank was a – a wild oats, final fling kind of deal for her. He seduced her, Cole. And he recorded it. I don’t think she knew anything.”

“She was a pawn,” Delahoy said.

“Jesus,” Banks said.

Officer Donovan rapped on the door and Walsh motioned him inside.

“Your guy’s up from the Tombs,” Donovan said. “I put him in Interview Five.”

“Thanks,” Banks said, and they collected their files.

Delahoy passed the briefing packets to Shraeger. “Shred ’em,” he said.

“Eight hours, guys,” Walsh reminded them.

Delahoy acknowledged this with a dismissive wave, and he and Banks left.

“Okay,” Walsh said. “We all understand what’s at stake here, right? We all know our roles in this?”

Beaumont nodded. A few seconds later, Cole did as well.

“All right, then,” Shraeger said. “Let’s make our move.”

END OF PART FOUR


	5. End Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tired of being one step behind the Hand Writing Killer, Shraeger decides to set a trap to lure him into the open, using Nicole Alvarez's secret witness as bait. Delahoy's symptoms worsen, forcing him to make a difficult decision.

_Second Squad, be advised, dispatch is in a foul mood due to an unfortunate combination of naproxen,_ _shiraz_ _, and a DVD copy of_ Dear John _. Therefore, I will not be putting up with any of your guff. Period._

 

As they neared Room Five, Leo grew anxious. “Eric, wait.” He said, “You should know, I may have told Zimsky about you and Dr. Crumb.”

Eric scratched his cheek. “So?”

“And, also about your... tumor.”

Now Eric fixed Leo with a withering glare. “Why, Leo? Why would you do that?”

“I was attempting to appeal to Zimsky’s sense of guilt,” Leo explained.

“And?”

“He doesn’t have one,” Leo said.

Eric arched his brows.

“So, what do you think?” Banks said, rushing to change the subject. “Should we do the Mickey and Mallory on this guy, or the Riggs and Murtaugh?”

Eric’s hand rested on the doorknob. He said, “How’s this: Crazed Lover, Terminal Cancer Patient.”

Leo blinked. “Come on...”

“It’s not a game, Leo. This guy’s been playing us like it’s a game, but it ends here, okay? He needs to know it’s finished.”

Leo nodded. “No more games.”

“That’s right. No more playin’.” He straightened his sleeves. “You ready?”

“All right,” Leo said.

“Whatever happens next,” Eric said. “Act surprised.”

“Um, what?”

Eric smiled and stepped inside.

* * *

“Dr. Zimsky,” Leo said as they entered the interview room. “Comfortable?”

“Well, the guards took the shoelaces from my Converse, and then I had to share a toilet with three strange men,” Zimsky replied.

“Aw,” Leo said. “That is too bad...”

At the same time, Eric rolled his shoulders, and in one smooth motion, hauled Zimsky up and slammed him against the wall.

Leo, stunned, watched as his partner pinned Zimsky and dug his fingers into his throat. Zimsky flailed and Leo began shouting, but Eric didn’t relent. After a long moment, he glanced back at Leo and chuckled. “Looks like somebody had a rough night in the Tombs.”

“Eric,” Leo yelled. “What—?”

Zimsky clawed at Eric’s fingers. His feet scraped futilely at the floor. Eric leaned closer. He said, “I can hurt you, y’know. _Really_ hurt you...”

“Eric!” Leo shouted.

“I’d feel pretty good about it, and honestly, what can they do to me, know what I’m sayin’?” Eric said. “Nod if you know what I’m sayin’.”

Zimsky gurgled, then nodded.

“Eric, let ’im go.”

“Not yet, Leo,” Eric said through his teeth. He tightened his grip on Zimsky’s neck.

“Eric—”

“You’ll talk, right,” Eric said. “Or your injuries from last night will continue to get progressively worse. Nod if it’s clear.”

Zimsky nodded again.

Leo placed a hand on Eric’s shoulder. He flinched at first, and then, slowly, as if willing each muscle to respond, he released Zimsky, who crumpled, gagging, to the floor.

Leo guided Eric to the corner. Eric kept his eyes on Zimsky as Leo muttered, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I told you,” Eric answered.

Leo’s expression clouded. “Crazed... Yeah. Got that part...But...”

Eric brushed it off and took a seat. He folded his hands on the table.

Leo bent to offer a hand to Zimsky. “My, uh, partner,” he explained. “He’s...”

Zimsky touched tentative fingers to his throat. He eyed Leo warily before edging up the wall without accepting his proffered hand. Leo backed away as Zimsky hobbled to his chair.

As he sank down, Zimsky mumbled, “I should request my lawyer.”

“But you won’t,” Eric said.

“Why won’t he?” Leo asked.

Zimsky ran a finger along the seam of his yellow jumpsuit.

Eric said, “Your lawyer gives away certain... associations. Am I right?”

“Maybe,” Zimsky mumbled.

“Maybe?” Eric tittered. He elbowed Leo. “You know what I think?”

Hesitant, Leo flashed a nervous grin. “I don’t know, Eric. What do you think?”

“I think our pal here could use some ice,” Eric said.

“No, I’m fine,” Zimsky blurted.

“He says he’s fine,” Leo said.

“No, I don’t think so,” Eric said. He rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. “He needs ice.”

Leo shot a sympathetic look at Zimsky. Then he backed warily to the door and left.

* * *

Shraeger watched as Leo came mincing up the hall and ducked into the break room. Walsh, at her elbow, said, “What was that about?”

“Zimsky interrogation,” she said.

“Sounded intense,” he said, then went back to listening to the tech unit’s report over the phone.

Shraeger felt prickles of anxiety shiver into her throat. Her whole plan hinged on them operating as a team, but Delahoy seemed... off. Maybe it was a combination of his concern over Dr. Crumb and the fact that Zimsky had hit him in the face, but Delahoy seemed uncharacteristically cautious during the briefing. That could mean trouble.

Sergeant Brown came in then. “I heard yelling,” he said.

“Zimsky interrogation,” Walsh said, sounding far more nonchalant than Shraeger had when she uttered the same line.

“That’s what I thought,” Brown said. He left them and continued down the hall.

* * *

In the break room, Leo ran a trembling hand over his face. He was at the freezer filling a Styrofoam cup with ice chips when Sergeant Brown came in.

“Banks,” he said. “What’s going on in there?”

 _Now that was a real good question_ , Leo thought. As he folded a series of paper towels into a square, he said, “It’s all right Sarge, we got it under control—”

“—I heard shouting,” Brown said.

“That was me,” Leo said.

Sergeant Brown leaned in, so close their foreheads were almost touching. He said, “You know Delahoy better than anyone...”

“Yes, sir,” Leo said.

“Son, something’s not right with him...”

“Yes, sir,” Leo agreed.

“So if you think he’s going too far—”

“—If I thought that,” Leo said, tipping the cup of ice into the paper towel square. “I wouldn’t be out here.” He sounded so convincing he almost believed it himself.

Sergeant Brown eyed him a moment longer before. “Okay,” he said. He clapped Leo on the shoulder and left.

Leo thought he should probably hurry. He couldn’t really say what Eric was doing in there with Zimsky, but he’d never seen him choke-slam a guy against the wall either, so...

He shook himself. _Seriously_ , he thought, _terminal cancer or not, Eric wouldn’t hurt the guy._

_Would he?_

Leo decided he didn’t know. He hurried back to the interview room, ice pack in hand. He pressed his ear to the door, and when he heard the muffled noise of Zimsky’s voice, he knocked, and Eric called him in.

“Everything all right?” Leo asked.

Zimsky looked hangdog but undamaged. Leo passed the ice pack to Zimsky, who pressed it gingerly to the raised welts on his throat.

“Oh sure,” Eric said. “Please. Continue.”

Zimsky actually seemed eager to speak. “So that’s when I met Frank Lutz. He was, like, some Wooderson type character, running around Denton in his El Camino picking up cons and chicks like they were fallen fruit. I moved East after graduation, Frank moved back to LaGrange, but we kept in touch. He was a bold dude, a total cowboy—”

Leo held up a finger. “Just a second, please,” he said.

He leaned back in his seat and gestured for Eric to join him. Leo whispered, “All right, what did you do?”

Eric flashed a wan smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

Across the table, Zimsky kneaded his fingers.

“Yeeeah,” Leo said. “I’ll try and do that.”

Eric returned to the table and opened the file folder. “Let’s move on, shall we? I want to know about Monica.”

“Monica?” Zimsky asked.

“Don’t play cute,” Eric said.

Zimsky blinked. “Uh. You mean Dr. Crumb, of course.”

“Of course.”

Zimsky shook his head. “Y’know, this all started out as fun,” he said. “We’d sit around, drinking beer, playing a little tabletop RPG, talking about how we’d lost control of our lives and how the system was so unfair. I was unemployed. My friend’s business was tanking.”

“Your friend Noel Blanch?” Leo asked.

“Nice try,” Zimsky said. “But I’m not saying.”

“You’re also not answering my question,” Eric said.

“I’m getting there,” Zimsky said in a rush. “Just... Things changed when Frank entered the fold. When Navan called him, Frank moved to New York, and our priorities shifted. Frank got to talking with the guys, and this idea came up. It was...” Zimsky grinned. “Well. It was epic.”

“And this plan was...” Eric lead in.

“To take back control. To live large. To be The Men!” Zimsky chuckled. “And it worked, too. You wouldn’t believe, but most people don’t even see what’s going on right in front of them. They get so wrapped up in their own tiny lives, they don’t see things. It makes them easy to predict, easy to manipulate. Like your girl—”

Eric glared at him. Zimsky swallowed. “Dude,” he said. “Dr. Crumb was in my way. That’s all. She was one of three possible ME candidates. She just happened to screw up by screwing around. With you. It was nothing personal.”

“Nothing _personal_ ,” Eric bit out. “You ruined her life.”

Zimsky rubbed his neck. “You sure that was me?”

Eric stood up so fast the chair tottered and crashed to the floor. Leo caught him and wrenched him back.

“Let me go, Leo,” Eric growled. He struggled a moment against Leo’s grip, but finally gave up and leaned against the wall.

Eric was tired, Leo knew. He looked in his partner’s eyes, trying to gauge how much more Eric could take. But he was well past that limit; they both knew it.

Zimsky’s expression flickered between being pleased and sickened with himself. He rubbed his forehead with the knuckles of his free hand. His other hand cupped the ice at his throat, and small rivulets of water trickled into his collar.

“We’re gonna take a break,” Leo said, keeping a hand on Eric’s shoulder.

“No,” Eric said.

“Eric—” Leo began.

Eric whispered, “It’s not time yet.”

Leo relaxed a fraction. Maybe Eric _was_ still in control, still acting out his part. Maybe he was just freakishly good at it.

“Oh-kay?” Leo said, uncertainly.

“Okay,” Eric said.

They returned to the table.

“Come on, man,” Zimsky said after a moment’s silence. “She was miserable. I know; I watched her for months—”

“—You’re not making this better,” Leo said.

“Hey, listen, okay. All I mean is that her life was pretty much The Suck before I entered the picture,” Zimsky said. “Maybe I even helped her in some way. Maybe I nudged her toward something worthwhile. Think about it. Before, she never smiled, she always ate alone. She worked late every night, even weekends. Her only friends were dead things.”

“She _was_ miserable,” Eric admitted. “She said so.”

Leo stammered. “But... It doesn’t make it right, what he’s done...”

“No, it doesn’t,” Zimsky said. “But, you believe things happen for a reason, right?”

Leo eyed him suspiciously. “Yes.”

“You believe in destiny?” Zimsky asked.

Leo looked to Eric. “Is this a joke?” he asked.

“No. Serious. There is no destiny, Detective. Just the push. The _will_ to do something. That’s what we’re about. Not the right or wrong, but the action. _We’re_ the reason.” Zimsky grinned.

“You’re the megalomaniac,” Leo said.

Eric nodded. “Seems accurate.”

“Sure, whatever,” Zimsky said. “But we know how to move on the board. Our movements are deliberate and planned. Does that make us evil?”

“You killed a homeless guy,” Leo said. “In my book that makes you the villain.”

“Please,” Zimsky rolled his eyes. “We didn’t kill anyone. Ben Yuri was just a body in the morgue.”

Leo cut a glance at Eric, who arched his brows as if to say _Maybe?_ Leo said, “So you lopped off a dead homeless guy’s fingers and carved a number in his chest?”

“Well,” Zimsky said. “Yeah.”

“So your friend Ryerson could get away?” Eric said. When Zimsky started to protest, Eric added, “Don’t say maybe.”

Zimsky held up his hands.

“So you do know Ryerson?” Leo asked.

Zimsky shrugged. “I did him a favor.”

“Why?”

“His part was done,” Zimsky said. “He wanted to start a new life. It’s a beautiful thing, right?”

“So your friends,” Eric said to Zimsky. “They gonna let you hang for all this? That what you want?”

Zimsky shrugged. “Sometimes prison is the safest place to be,” he said.

Leo looked from Eric to Zimsky. “What does that mean?”

“More riddles?” Eric said, companionably. “Harold, we talked about this.” He leaned forward and Zimsky scraped back in his chair, flinging his arms wide, his eyes panicked.

“No no no no, no riddles, no games, I promise. It’s just, he never let us in on all the plays on the board. That’s what I’m saying.” Zimsky cupped the dripping ice pack in his hands. “That’s _all_ I’m saying.”

“He?” Leo said. “You mean Noel Blanch.”

Zimsky shrugged.

“Look, guy—” Eric said. “We only want what he’s planning next. Everything else is a waste of time. And if I think you’re stalling...”

“I’m not stalling,” Zimsky said, his voice almost a whimper. “My part’s done, too. That’s all I know.”

“In that case,” Eric said, settling heavily into his chair. “You were accepted into Texas Academy of Math and Science your junior year...”

Zimsky moaned. Leo knew this drill, the old repeat-the-same-questions-til-the-perp’s-exhausted routine. Right now, all they could do was bide their time. He pulled up his chair as well and they started from the top.

* * *

Beaumont stepped to the curb and peered south down 6th Avenue, pulling her coat around her against the chill.

“You think he’ll show?” Cole asked. He bounced on the balls of his feet and strode a few steps back toward Bryant Park. He glanced at the screen of the iPhone the Sarge had loaned him, the one meant to replace his old flip phone because Amy’s had proven so inadequate during the whole Nicole Alvarez ordeal. It was after ten, according to the fancy touchscreen. Their guy was late.

“He’ll show,” Beaumont said. “He actually seemed eager to help out. Him, plus Jacob Neal and the Boorland kid—that should be enough to fill holding if Zimsky feels the need to talk.”

“I don’t like it,” Cole said, frowning. He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“Shraeger’s got a good plan,” Beaumont said. “A lot of it rests on your shoulders, I get that, but, doesn’t it feel good, taking steps forward instead of just reacting? And we’ve gotta bust these guys, after all they’ve done to us...”

“Oh, Shraeger’s plan’s solid enough,” he spat. “But she’s forgetting one very important detail. We’re relying on the assistance of liars and criminals, Allison. Believe me, they cannot be trusted.”

He turned and headed up the park, walking at a brisk pace. Beaumont had to jog to catch him, and when she did, she jerked his arm with such force it spun him.

“Look at me,” she told him. “You _were_ a criminal. A dumb impressionable kid named Navan Granger. That’s not who you are now. You are _not_ alone. You’re not a liar. And you’re not a criminal.”

He blew out a sigh. “So I changed,” Cole said. “Doesn’t mean these guys have.”

“Luis Aguilar was probably a lot like you when he fell in with the bank robbing mariachi from Boston,” Beaumont said.

Cole squinted against the wind and shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “But what if we’re wrong? What if he’s some larcenous low-life lookin’ out for only himself?”

“Henry,” she said. “What choice do we have?”

He folded his arms; his brow furrowed. “We could turn the case over to the FBI.”

“Never gonna happen,” she said, her dark eyes glaring up at him. “This _will_ work—”

Cole nodded suddenly. “I hope you’re right,” he muttered. “’Cause he’s here.”

Luis Aguilar, aka The Fish, joined them on the corner. He looked sheepishly from Beaumont to Cole. “So I made it,” he said.

“Yes you did,” Beaumont said, smiling.

Cole narrowed his eyes. “You ready to do some good for a change?” he asked.

Luis nodded. “I think I am,” he said.

* * *

“No! Eddie, no,” Walsh shouted into his phone. “Don’t do this. Yes, we do have something to go on—”

Banks and Delahoy entered the precinct office, hauling an exhausted-looking Zimsky between them. They shoved him into the holding cell, where he took up a seat between a kid with a busted lip and a young man in a sweater cap.

Walsh continued his rant. “Eddie, that’s not enough time and you know it. You’re gutting us, here—I don’t care if you’ve cleared it with Sergeant Brown. Just—have a little faith in us. Eddie, don’t—” He glared at his phone, then sent it skittering across his desk and onto Shraeger’s, where it clinked against her coffee mug, nearly sending it into her lap.

She ended her call and stared up at him. “I hesitate to ask, but... what was that?” she asked.

Walsh raked his hands through his hair. “Apparently Eddie’s looking to tap out early,” he said.

“He can’t do that,” Banks said.

“He can and will,” Walsh said. “He’s got a contact at the FBI, and Eddie just informed me that they’ve moved our deadline to 1 p.m.—”

“—What?” Delahoy whined. “That’s, like, three hours from now.”

“Oh I know,” Walsh said, rubbing his forehead. “But Eddie’s a tool until he’s not, so please tell me you got something from Doctor Death.”

“We got zero from the Zed,” Delahoy told them. He went to his desk, rattled out a bottle of pills, and dry swallowed one before continuing. “Unless you count the fact that he knew Frank Lutz back in sunny _Tejas_ as news, which we don’t. So we got _nada_.”

“Guys, that’s... it’s not good enough,” Walsh said. “What were you doing in there, anyway? I mean, if that’s all you got after three hours—”

“—Hey, back the hell off, Short Stack,” Delahoy snapped. “This wasn’t even our case—”

“—Whoa, whoa, time out,” Banks said, stepping between them. He shot an alarmed look at Shraeger, who answered with an abrupt shake of her head.

“Look,” she said, leaning in, whispering. “It doesn’t matter. We have the meeting with Rothby this afternoon.”

“Rothby?” Banks blurted.

"Shh,” Shraeger hissed. “Nicole Alvarez’ secret witness in the Jeff Blanch case is Markus Rothby. We’ve got a window to speak with him at noon.”

Walsh retrieved his phone, dialed, and pressed it to his ear. “Good,” he said. “Where is that meeting again?”

“Waldorf-Astoria parking garage, level two,” she said. “South entrance.”

“You really think this Rothby whoever is gonna connect the dots between this guy—” Delahoy jerked a thumb over his shoulder, “—and Mr. White Christmas?”

“That’s exactly what we think,” Shraeger said.

A sudden disruption erupted in the hall, and moments later, Beaumont and Cole entered, heaving a distressed and very vocal young man before them.

“I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong guy! I didn’t rob anyone!” he yelled.

“That’s just what you said last time, Gil,” Beaumont shot back.

The man flailed in her grasp. “You promised you wouldn’t call me that!”

“You promised not to rob people,” Cole replied calmly. He dragged the cell door open and Beaumont shoved him into holding.

“Hey look,” Banks said, pointing. “It’s the fish perp. Thought we released you back into the wild.”

“I’m not a fish, I’m _not a fish_!!” Luis screamed. “You got the wrong guy.”

“Sure, whatever,” Beaumont said. “Just sit tight, ’cause this time, we’re sending you upriver.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Shraeger met Walsh and Beaumont in front of the filing cabinets opposite the holding cell.

“Well?” she said.

“Yep,” Walsh nodded. They pretended to study the booking sheets on a clipboard between them.

“Good,” she looked to Beaumont. “Any word on Amy?”

“Not yet,” she answered. “She hasn’t tried planes or public transit, anyway. We’ve got uniforms checking the list of her friends. It’s likely she’s holed up somewhere, hiding her shame.”

Shraeger sucked air over her teeth. “How’s Cole holding up?”

“I don’t think it’s hit him fully,” Beaumont said.

“Probably a good thing,” Walsh said.

“Yeah. But his head’s in this, we can count on that.” Beaumont flipped the page. “Honestly, I’m more concerned about Banks and Delahoy,” she said.

“So you’ve noticed, too?” Shraeger asked.

“Noticed... what?” Walsh said.

“Come on, Walsh,” Shraeger said. “Look at them.”

He cast a glance over his shoulder. Banks appeared to be absorbed in the Zimsky case files. Across from him, Delahoy nibbled sullenly at the heap of pretzels on his blotter while he scowled over a stack of faxes.

Walsh said, “They look normal.”

Beaumont shook her head. “Jason, you’re so good at the job, how can you _not_ see this?”

Walsh rolled his eyes. “See... what? What are you talking about?”

“For starters, they aren’t arguing,” Beaumont said.

“Oh yes,” Walsh muttered blandly. “The situation is dire.”

“It is,” Shraeger said. “How’re we supposed to pull this off if one-third of our team isn’t speaking to each other?”

“So they’re not talking,” Walsh protested. “Guys often go long stretches without communicating. It doesn’t mean they’re not BFFs. It just means they’re guys.”

“No, this is serious,” Shraeger said. “Clearly Leo’s upset about Eric’s secret relationship with Dr. Crumb.”

“And Eric has clearly fallen hard for her,” Beaumont added. “Like a cartoon coyote strapped to an anvil. Poor guy—he looks horrible.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Walsh said.

Both women solemnly shook their heads.

“He just called you Short Stack,” Beaumont reminded him.

“He’s playing the part,” Walsh countered.

“Yeah, well, Zimsky’s got a Delahoy-shaped handprint on his throat. Eric’s stretched too thin and I’m worried,” Shraeger said.

“Stretched too—” Walsh shook his head. “ _No_ —It’s _Delahoy_. And it’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous?” Cole said, joining them at the filing cabinet. He passed a sheet of paper to Beaumont.

“Office gossip,” Walsh said. “What’s this?”

“Order of release,” Cole announced. “Luis was right; it wasn’t him.”

“Well damn,” Beaumont said. “Guess we better let him go.”

* * *

“Leo, these pages,” Eric said. “They look smudged to you?”

Leo glanced, shook his head. “They look fine.”

Eric closed his right eye. The text floated back into focus. He pressed his palm to his left eye then, and the words blurred into wavy lines of gray.

When he lowered his hand, though, nothing changed. The text remained a cloudy smear across the page. Then he heard Leo’s voice, but it sounded like underwater noises, garbled, distant, and strange. Eric craned his head slowly in Leo’s direction, but even that motion caused an odd dizzying sensation. His eyes wouldn’t focus, and neither, for that matter, would his ears.

He blew out a breath. “This,” he muttered. “Is in all ways unsettling.”

Then a jagged line fractured along the left side of his peripheral vision. Eric scraped his chair back and stood, feeling for a moment like a tightrope walker.

Now Eric could hear only the pounding of the blood in his ears. It drowned out everything else, including Leo’s voice. He could read his partner’s lips, but it was easier to see the concern in Leo’s face.

Eric thought he said, “Hey man, you need to sit down?”

“No, I got something in my eye,” Eric said. He hadn’t remembered standing.

“You need some drops?” he thought he heard Leo say. “I got some drops...” Leo opened his desk drawer and began to pull out files and bottles and packets of clean-wipes, scattering them across the desktop.

“I don’t need the drops,” Eric growled. “Just—”

“—No, here,” Leo said, waving the bottle of eye drops. Eric felt someone brush his arm and flinched as if he’d been shocked. Then Beaumont was at his elbow, and Cole as well, and they were talking at him and Eric could hear them... He just couldn’t _hear_ them.

Eric shoved passed them, ignoring their looks of surprise. He backed into Leo, who caught him and turned him around. Eric wrenched himself free.

Leo grabbed his arm. Now he looked more than concerned. He looked scared.

“I, uh...” Eric cleared his throat. “Leo, I gotta go.”

Leo said something like, “ _Need me to come with you?”_

Eric shook his head. “No, man, it’s all right. I’m fine,” he heard himself say.

It was possibly the biggest lie he’d ever spoken in his life.

* * *

“Eric,” Sergeant Brown said, glancing over his shoulder as Delahoy came in and closed the door. “Have a seat.”

Eric hovered at the edge of the desk. “Yeah. I’ll stand.”

Sergeant Brown turned then and hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “You been out of this a while, son,” Brown said.

“Yes, sir,” Eric said.

“Usually, I wouldn’t worry,” Brown went on. “You take care of yourself. You’re good police. But there’s something going on with you, and you’re not the type to ask for help. And I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s up—”

“—I know, sir,” Eric said. “And that’s why...” He blew out a breath. “I’m leaving.”

Sergeant Brown met Eric’s eyes. He said, “It’s that bad, is it?”

Eric looked away, nodded.

“How long you need?”

Another pause. “Indefinite,” he said. Then he placed his gun and badge on Sergeant Brown’s desk.

Sergeant Brown pursed his lips as he considered this. “And Leo,” he said. “Does he know?”

Eric’s eye twitched. “Some of it,” he said. “Most of it.”

Brown said, “I don’t like the sound of this, Detective.”

“No, sir.” He laughed. “Neither do I.”

Sergeant Brown extended his hand. Eric clasped it. He had a firm handshake. Despite his edgy temper and his tendency to walk the gray, Brown liked the guy. He’d known this day was coming for a while, even before Eric’s weight loss and his frequent disappearances, Brown knew something was wrong.

Now he thought he could guess what it was. “Do me a favor, huh? Take care of yourself.”

Eric blinked but said nothing. Sergeant Brown released his hand and Eric Delahoy walked out of the Second Precinct for the last time.

* * *

“James Boorland,” Shraeger called. The kid with the busted lip raised his hand.

She slid open the holding cell and beckoned to him. As he left, he glanced over his shoulder at Zimsky, and Shraeger pulled him forward.

“He’s not the type you should be associating with,” Shraeger told him. She handed him his scarf and a plastic bag containing his effects.

“And for the record,” Walsh said. “Debate club is for verbal debates, not the physical kind, okay?”

“I second that,” Shraeger said.

Boorland smiled as he wound the scarf around his neck. “He started it,” he said.

“Regardless,” Shraeger said. “Your Mom said not to go so easy on you next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Boorland said.

“That’s what we like to hear,” Walsh said. “C’mon, we’ll sign you out.”

Once they were on the stairwell, James Boorland took the digital recorder from his pocket and passed it to Walsh.

“You were right,” James told them. “He told Luis to meet a guy in Central Park. Gave him a coded message, even mentioned payment. It’s all on the tape.”

Shraeger patted his shoulder. “You did great,” she told him. “You ever consider a career in acting?”

“Me?” James blushed. “It was that Luis dude who stole the show.”

Walsh grimaced. “ _Little_ over the top,” he said.

“Still. I think that Zimsky guy bought it,” James said.

“Let’s hope so,” Walsh said. “Go on, get cleaned up. We’ll drop you by your house on our way out.”

“Thanks,” James said. “And thanks for helping my Dad, too. I know he probably would’a died, if you hadn’t...well...” He nodded and ducked into the restroom to wash the faux fight make-up from his face.

“How much time do we have?” Shraeger asked.

Walsh checked his watch. “Seventy-two minutes.”

“Enough time for Luis to get to Central Park and meet Zimsky’s contact,” Shraeger said. “What do you bet it’s one of his chess buddies?”

“Hm,” Walsh said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“I’m just gonna... call Davis and reschedule our lunch for sometime in March,” she said.

“Don’t forget to tell him about the wedding,” Walsh said.

Shraeger rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Ugh, the wedding.”

“Yeah, it’s been a helluva week,” Walsh said. “I’m gonna touch base with Cole and Beaumont. Meet back here in ten?”

Shraeger nodded. She stepped into the break room and dialed Davis so that she could break their plans for perhaps the thousandth time.

* * *

Sergeant Brown closed the door behind him and placed the files on the desk.

“We’ve got a little over an hour til Go Time,” Brown said. “Cole and Beaumont just confirmed – Luis Aguilar completed the exchange. They’re tailing Zimsky’s informant, so they’ll keep in contact. Now, you should know...” The Sergeant folded his arms. “Delahoy’s out of this one.”

“What?” Walsh asked. “As of when?” He glanced at Banks, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“As of just now,” Brown answered. “He needed time; I gave it.”

Shraeger muttered, “Told you.”

Walsh glowered.

“So it means we’re a man down,” Brown went on. “But the plan remains the same. Cole has his part. Beaumont has hers. We’ve got uniforms on the street at the south entrance of the Waldorf-Astoria parking garage and two units dressed as civilians inside the structure itself. Eddie’s volunteered to stick by Nicole; that’s the best place for him. Leo, you cover from the west; I’m east. Walsh and Shraeger, you got your ten minutes. Make ’em count.”

* * *

Cole and Beaumont had followed their mark – a 60-ish rumpled professor type – all the way from the mall to the Blue Spoon Cafe. The brief conversation with Luis Aguilar confirmed the old guy’s identity: he wore the mustard colored scarf and horn-rims Zimsky said to look out for.

Now The Professor, as Cole called him in his mind, was sitting at the lunch counter, and the meeting with Rothby in the parking garage was already in progress.

“Henry, it’s time,” Beaumont said.

“What, now?” Cole asked.

She shrugged. “We’re only five blocks from the precinct,” she told him. “This guy looks like he’s settling down for a meal.”

“But the plan—”

“—I know the plan,” Beaumont said, a smile curling the corner of her mouth. “You got your phone?”

Cole nodded.

She said, “You’re just a phone call away. Remember?”

He patted the iPhone buried deep in the pocket of his trench. “Now?”

“You’re not nervous, are you?” she asked.

His brows peaked like a pair of steeples, and Beaumont’s smile broadened.

“You’ll do fine,” she said.

 _And why wouldn’t he?_ Cole wanted to say. _After all, he was great at lying_.

Instead, he stood and took a deep breath. “All right. I’ll check the wires for hits on Amy’s location.”

“That’s right. Twenty minutes, tops,” Beaumont said. “This guy will probably still be sipping his coffee.”

So Cole squeezed her hand and returned to the precinct.

* * *

Only, once he reached the precinct, Cole found there were no wire files on his desk. Officer Leach was at the fax machine, but the tray beside it was empty.

Cole called to him. “Hey, did we receive any wire reports in the last half hour?”

Leach gave his characteristic noncommittal shrug. “We woulda put ’em on the recipient’s desk,” he said and started for the door.

“It might’ve been a general report, no specific recipient...”

But Leach waved dismissively and disappeared through the door.

“Thank you,” Cole muttered. He scanned the office. Files were scattered willy-nilly all across their desks. Maybe someone just plopped the wire reports where ever there was free space.

So he began to hunt through folders: Ryerson’s personnel files, the surveillance logs from Kowalski’s storage locker, Zimsky’s school transcripts.

Then Cole spotted a peculiar file on Banks’ desk, one that threw Cole completely from his task. This one contained a birth certificate, social security card, and credit report for a man named Peter Sharpe.

Strange though that seemed, the stolen ID was not what grabbed Cole’s attention. It was the seller’s information paper-clipped to the inside flap. Lowdown Pat: The same man responsible for turning Navan Granger into Henry Wilson Cole.

 _This,_ he thought, _could be useful._ A chill spread through Cole’s body as he considered his options. Then reason returned and he had to wonder, _How did this ID brokered by Lowdown Pat get onto the desk of Leo Banks?_

He looked up and found Harold Zimsky staring at him through the bars of the holding cell.

“Well, looky here,” Zimsky said. “It’s Navan Granger. All alone. What a lucky random happenstance.”

Cole swallowed. “I got nothing to say to you.”

“Oh, I disagree.” Zimsky clicked his tongue. “Must be a really big thing going down to have everyone out of the precinct like this. All the pieces off the board. Hm. I wonder what it could be?” He rubbed his chin. “And you’ve come back on your own. Only one reason why you’d do that. Gee, let me think...”

“Amy,” Cole breathed.

Zimsky leaned forward, his head nearly touching the bars. “Ah, Navan. So predictable.” He shook his head. “You know what’s super freakin’ hilarious, though? That gut feeling of yours. The one that tells you she’d never really hurt you – it’s right. She wouldn’t. Not without... reason.”

Cole strode to the holding cell, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “What have you done?”

Zimsky remained still. Inscrutable. “Me?” he said. “Nothing.”

Cole drew himself up. “But you know something.”

“Oh, I know lots of things,” Zimsky said, keeping his voice low. “Like, for instance, there are no recording devices in this office. And I know about the set up today: The moles in holding. The faked acceleration of the FBI timeline. A nice play. An unexpected play. Some of your friends are real good actors. But here it’s worked in my favor, after all.” He smiled. “Right, Navan?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” Zimsky said, fake-frowning. “It’s who you are—”

“— _Where_ is Amy?”

“I’ll take you to her,” Zimsky said.

“No.”

“Okay.” Zimsky strolled to the bench and sat down. Cole fought to keep hold of his breathing while Zimsky laced his fingers behind his head and grinned up at him like the Cheshire Cat.

After a long, long pause, in which Cole endeavored to wager out what was important and what was true, he backed away from the cell, returning briefly to Banks’ desk, where he folded the file and pushed it deep into the pocket of his coat, nudging the iPhone as he did so. He remembered Beaumont’s reminder, only a phone call away...

Cole closed his eyes, whispered a prayer, and returned to holding.

For a moment, he ground his teeth against doubt, but the question was there, sharp and acidic on his tongue. “Is she in danger?” Cole asked.

Zimsky smirked. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Cole said, as he fit the holding cell key into the lock, “that you’re ready to return to the Tombs.”

Zimsky met him at the cell door. With a knowing nod, he said, “You know, I think you’re right.”

* * *

“You said I’d have complete anonymity,” Markus Rothby whined from the back seat of the agency’s Buick Continental. He was a slight guy whose blond crew cut and wire-frame glasses clashed with the death cult tattoos that scrawled across every exposed inch of his skin. “You said I’d have to testify once, and then I was out of the picture.”

“That remains the deal.” Nicole Alvarez said, a cool smile curling on her lips. “You’ve been assigned a number for all court records. Once your testimony is recorded, you’ll be remanded to Federal custody and placed in the witness relocation program. All we’re doing now is transporting you to—”

“—Oh, sure, right, and who are these clowns?” Rothby asked, jabbing a pair of hooked fingers at Walsh and Shraeger in the front seat.

Walsh glanced in the rearview mirror. “Oh, we’re the drivers,” he said.

Rothby looked from Nicole, to the parking garage where Eddie Alvarez stood guard beside the car door, then back to Shraeger, who shrugged.

“We’re not moving,” Rothby pointed out.

“Glad you mentioned that.” Nicole smoothed the seams of her designer skirt. “See, they need something from you first.”

“Like?” Rothby growled.

“Like information,” Shraeger said. “About Noel Blanch. You worked for him, didn’t you?”

Rothby shot a searing glare at Nicole. “The hell—?” he began.

Nicole lifted one finger. “It’s okay,” she said. “They just want to ask some questions.”

“I’m already nose deep in Blanch family business,” Rothby snarled.

“You’re wearing a Federal life preserver,” Shraeger pointed out. “It won’t hurt you to give us a few details...”

Rothby’s eyes narrowed. “I’d need further compensation.”

“Name it,” Nicole said.

“ _Moola_.” His lip twitched. “Enough green to keep me gone. Not witness-protection gone. Like, retired-on-a-distant-island gone. If they find out I’m talking I’m worse than dead, and you know they always find out everything...”

Nicole arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “Not everything,” she assured him. “And if you help land Jeff _and_ Noel Blanch behind bars, who will come after you? It’s in your best interest to put them both away. Hm?”

Shraeger, who was watching the whole exchange from the rearview mirror, had to marvel at how poised Nicole seemed, given that she spent the better part of the previous afternoon locked in a wooden box.

Rothby hissed out a sigh. “I’ll answer five yes-or-no questions,” he said.

“Are you kidding me?” Shraeger groaned.

“No. And that’s one,” Rothby replied, a sneer twisting into his lip. “What? You think I got here by smiles and candy?”

Walsh and Shraeger exchanged a severe look. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered. Then he lead off with, “Did Burt Kowalski offer you a deal five years ago that would send Noel Blanch to prison?”

Rothby’s sneer stretched into a grin. “Yes. That’s pretty old news.”

Walsh leaned in and whispered to Shraeger, “Okay. We already know he’s testifying _against_ Jeff Blanch, and that he has some heavy evidence that will finally send the guy to prison for good.”

Shraeger tapped her lip thoughtfully. “Who could provide information that damning but a rival or a—”

“—close family member?” Walsh finished.

“What if they’re one in the same?” Shraeger asked, in the same hushed tone.

“Maybe.” Walsh shrugged. “Worth a shot?”

“Hey, Whispers McWhisperson,” Rothby snarled. “I’m back here.”

Walsh chuckled softly. “Are you currently working for Noel Blanch to help him get Jeff Blanch out of the picture?”

Rothby choked. “What?”

“You know where Noel Blanch is, don’t you?” Shraeger said.

“No,” Rothby said. “But I—”

The first shot screamed off the hood of the car. The second shattered the windshield, but Shraeger and Walsh had ducked beneath the dash, and were rolling from the doors before the third struck the right fender.

“Keep low,” Walsh shouted.

Behind them, Rothby began to scream, an incessant wailing, and Shraeger thought, _Well, he’s hit_...

Only he wasn’t. He crouched in the floorboard, his arms flung over his head. Beside him, Nicole took cover, and as Shraeger crept along the side door, their eyes met, and Shraeger knew Nicole was all right.

Shraeger scuttled around the trunk and ran headlong into Eddie.

“You got these guys?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said. She heard him calling in the shots on his radio as she scrabbled up to sweep the parking garage. Raised voices and the slap of footfalls echoed near the west entrance. Shraeger, her heart thudding, drew her gun and jogged in that direction.

But when she reached street level, the excitement was over. Banks hovered at the west entrance with the shooter’s gun wrapped loosely in a white handkerchief. She joined him just as Walsh and Sergeant Brown returned from the chase. The crowds of wide-eyed onlookers were already beginning to disperse.

“So I guess you were right,” Shraeger said. “It _was_ worth a shot.”

“Yeah,” Walsh breathed.

Sergeant Brown palmed sweat from his forehead. “Ground support’s in pursuit. I’m calling in patrol to widen the search. What’ve we got?”

Walsh said, “So the shooter ditched the gun here and fled—”

“—Did you get a good look at him?” Shraeger asked.

“Barely,” Banks said. “Blue hoodie...that’s about all we saw before he rounded the corner and disappeared into the crowd.”

Sergeant Brown returned. “Okay, the guy fires three shots, ditches the gun, and splits without bothering to see if he hit the target.”

“So a diversion,” Walsh said. “ _Another_ diversion. But look,” he held up his phone. A blue signal pulsed on the screen.

Shraeger glanced at it and understood. “Already?”

Walsh nodded. “Yep.”

“He’s moving fast,” Shraeger said, looking to Sergeant Brown. “It’s our move.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Do what you gotta do.”

* * *

The door opened and Eric stepped in, the palm of his hand pressed over his left eye. Monica dog-eared the page of her novel.

“What happened to you?” she asked, getting to her feet.

“Well, for starters, I can’t see...” he said. With his free hand, he slapped at the light switch, hitting it with the third attempt. It didn’t do much against the brightness; half the room was windows, so he went to the drapes and tried to flail them closed.

“Here, let me,” she said, getting in front of him. “You lie down.”

“I don’t want to lie down,” he bit out.

She gripped a bit of hair above his wrist and applied a small amount of pressure, enough that he could feel it, not enough to cause pain. But the implication was clear.

“Lie. Down.” Her lips barely parted as she breathed the words.

He did so, immediately. A moment later, he said, “Our kid’s gonna be terrified of you. You know that, right?”

Monica unhooked the curtains and raked the drapes shut. “Tell me your symptoms.”

“I’m _dying_ ,” he said.

“Not yet, you’re not.” He heard her pad into the bathroom and run the taps. A moment later she returned to press a cold rag over his eyes. He shivered. She said, “Symptoms, Eric.”

“Uh, a jaggy pattern here,” he said, gesturing to the side of his head, where his peripheral vision still seemed cracked into fractures. “It’s almost like... crystal. It’s faceted and sharp and the vision is blurred. Also my hearing’s wonky, like I’m underwater.”

“And the jagged pattern, it’s pennant-like in shape and curves around your field of vision?”

“Yes,” he said, impressed. “Exactly like that. How did—”

“—Shut up. Are you experiencing any pain?” she asked.

He considered for a moment. “Curiously... no,” he admitted.

“It’s an ocular migraine,” she told him. “It’s triggered by stress.”

“A headache?” he asked, doubtfully.

“Not all migraines are associated with pain. What you’re seeing is an after-effect of the actual event. It means you need rest. Your body is going through so much right now...”

He felt her hand ruffle his hair from his forehead, and like a Pavlovian response, his whole body relaxed. After a moment, she edged onto the bed, and he remained as still as he could for fear that if he spoke or breathed, she would stop or move or threaten again to tear out his arm hair.

Yet he started talking, like some brainless idiot. But, like with everything else in his life, he blamed it on the tumor. 

“I thought it was over,” he said. “Like everything up here was packing up and heading west. I panicked, y’know, ’cause I don’t know how it’ll be, when it happens. I used to think I’d want to go in my sleep, like, just slide off into a dream and never wake up or something. Only now... I don’t want to waste another second sleeping.”

“You’re not gonna burst into an Aerosmith song, are you?”

Eric tugged the rag up from one eye. “I bare my soul and you mock me.”

She faux pouted. “So sensitive.”

“Stop it,” he said. “It’s sexy.”

“None of that,” she whispered. “You’ll burst an optic nerve.”

A hum of laughter escaped his throat. “Foreplay,” he said.

“There," she said. "You’re feeling better.”

He was, actually. The crystalline pattern still flickered at the edge of his vision, but his hearing had balanced along with his heartbeat. He still felt headachy and vaguely flu-y, but the damp cloth on his face helped that, too. He felt what passed for normal these days.

“So enough about me,” he said. “How was your morning?”

“Better,” she said. “The ginger helped.”

“Good,” he said. He found her hand and wound her fingers in his. After a moment, he said, “I still think you should marry me.”

“I’m not going to marry you, Eric,” she said.

He pulled the rag down to squint at her. “Why not?”

She pushed her hand through his hair again but said nothing.

“Seriously. Is there something categorically unmarriable about me?”

Monica stared at him, all sullen-eyed and surly.

So Eric sat up. She tried to shove him back, but that was silly. He wasn’t that sick, and she was tiny. He took her hands in his. She attempted half-heartedly to pull away.

“No. Listen,” he said. “If you marry me, I can sign everything over to you. I’ve got pension, insurance, a fair amount of savings. I can take care of you. Y’know, both of you. I’m trying to think about after...”

Monica scowled up at him. “Money?” she said, like the word tasted bitter in her mouth.

“I’m trying to be practical, or whatever...”

She pushed away from him and paced beyond his reach to the end of the bed. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, and then she said, “Before I came to find you, I considered doing all this alone. And I’d almost decided I should let it go, to never even tell you about the pregnancy, I mean, what good would it do either of us? You’re dying, right?”

He leaned against the headboard. “You weren’t gonna tell me?” he mused. “But you _did_ tell me...”

“Yes. I did,” she said. “Because I _can_ do this without you, Eric. But I _don’t want to_.” She snatched the stack of printouts on the table and shoved them into his chest. “You’re _not_ going to die.”

Eric smoothed them, set them aside. “Yes. I am,” he said. “What? I don’t get it, you’re just now coming to terms with this?”

“Those treatments—”

“—Are _experimental_ ,” he said, slicing out each syllable.

“You haven’t even read them,” she said.

“I skimmed—”

“—You gave up on the first p—”

“—Moni!” he shouted over her. “You’re a doctor, you know my chances! So. Really— _really_ —I’d rather live what’s left of my life in relative dignity. Is that... I mean... is it too much to ask?”

Monica flung the door open with such force that Officer Dobbs scrambled from his chair in surprise. “It’s not just your life, Eric.” She folded her arms. “I think you should go...”

He reeled, indignant. “You... you’re _throwing me out_?”

“Take those with you,” she said, her voice breaking over the words. “Because if you want to see me again, then you have a decision to make.”

* * *

The Columbus Avenue brownstone was not where Cole thought Zimsky would take him. He figured Noel Blanch’s place of operation would be a warehouse near the Brooklyn Navy Yards, or one of the abandoned buildings in The Bronx.

This was a high-dollar address nestled into a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood – the kind of place where doctors and lawyers raised their families.

But then, Cole remembered as they climbed the steps to the wrought-iron gate, Jeff the White had been a “business man” of considerable influence for many years, and that translated to good money, good schools, and good living. Which meant Noel Blanch was society.

Society who answered the door barefoot and wearing an _Incredible Hulk_ t-shirt...

“You must be Henry,” Noel Blanch said, offering a hand.

Cole ignored the handshake and said, “Where’s Amy?”

“Down to business,” Blanch said. “I like him already. Dude, what happened to your neck?”

“That Delahoy guy is effing crazy,” Zimsky said, striding into the foyer.

Blanch narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, we’ll deal with him. Come in.”

They followed Blanch down the hallway.

“Nice jumpsuit,” Blanch said over his shoulder.

“Dude, shut up,” Zimsky responded. “You got my clothes?”

“ _Mais bien sur_ , _mon amis_ ” Blanch said, “Right this way.” He gestured into the living area where two men perched on barstools, each in expensive suits, each wearing an earpiece like Agent Smith from _The Matrix_. Cole knew immediately that they were guards, and they were armed. Blanch was smaller than Cole would have imagined, a short-ish blond man with a lilting smile and cutting blue eyes. He seemed to be laughing inwardly at a joke only he understood.

And the whole time, Cole kept thinking, _How can they be so casual about all of this, like it’s all part of their plan?_

And he realized with a tremor of dread that it was...

“You search him?” Blanch asked. He motioned to the taller of the guards, who ambled over to them.

“Not yet,” Zimsky scoffed. “Like I had the chance before. I was in custody, remember? How weird would that look? _Hey, Detective Cole, I need to know whatcha got on ya_ —”

“—Whatever,” Blanch said. “Gimme your gun, empty your pockets.”

Cole unholstered his weapon and passed it to the guard. He removed his wallet, his keys, the iPhone, an Altoids tin, and the wad of folded papers. Blanch was holding up the phone when Zimsky snatched the paper from the guards.

“Yeah, that,” Zimsky said. “I saw you take it from Detective Banks’ desk. What is it?” He unfolded the pages between them. Blanch, interested, passed the rest to the guard.

“Stolen ID from a case a few months back.” Cole raised his shoulders. “I can never go back to the Precinct now, so it’s time to change my name and disappear. Once I have Amy, of course.”

“Oh, Navan. Frank was right about wanting you on our side,” Noel said. “But you took him out of the game, didn’t you?”

“Where is Amy?” Cole said again.

“In a second,” Noel said. “Now. Let’s get this straight. You brought Harold here in hopes of exchanging him for your darling Amy, who, by the way, slept with your best friend...”

“It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,” Cole said.

Noel chuckled. “So here you are. Navan Granger of LaGrange. You surrendered your weapon, so you’ve got no means of taking her by force. You really think we can let you just walk out of here?”

“Well yes,” Cole said. “I’m a man of my word. Are you a man of yours, Mr. Blanch?”

Blanch scrutinized him. “No one’s that naive,” he said. “Yet here you are, in the Lion’s Den. I must admit, I’m half tempted to let you go, just because you are a one-of-a-kind adversary.”

Zimsky pursed his lips in a knowing smile. “But we can’t,” he said. “On count of the plan.”

Cole forced himself to stay focused. “Amy’s not here, is she?” he said.

“No, she is,” Blanch said. “She’s a little thing called insurance. My uncle was always big on that...”

“Speaking of,” Zimsky put in. “We should probably push on.”

Blanch nodded. “Gotcha.” He reached for Cole’s gun on the bar.

“Wait!” Cole shouted.

“Jeez. Relax,” Blanch said, smiling. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to fastidiously rub his prints from the weapon.

Cole struggled to level his breathing. “Why us?” he asked. “Why’d you target us? As an adversary, shouldn’t I get to know?”

Blanch and Zimsky exchanged a wary glance.

“C’mon, guy,” Zimsky said. “We’re not going to spell everything out, like some villain in a comic book.”

“Besides, we’re not the villains,” Blanch said, stepping forward, Cole’s service pistol in hand. “Although. We can walk and talk, can’t we? We’ll honor a last request.”

Zimsky’s eyes lit up. “You just can’t resist, can you?”

Blanch grinned. “I know. It’s just so awesome...” Then the smile winked out. He gestured with the gun. “Up the stairs. Go.”

The guards moved forward. One had slipped on a pair of leather gloves. The other shoved Cole into the hall. Cole glimpsed a wall clock in the corridor; it read 12:42 p.m. Blanch passed the gun to the gloved guard and motioned them up the stairs.

“Harold and I started this game with two targets in mind: Burt Kowalski and Jason Walsh,” Blanch said. “But you killed Frank Lutz, and he was like Harold’s Master Yoda. That was a huge deal, so it put you on our radar in a big way.”

“I was deeply grieved by his loss,” Zimsky added, from somewhere behind Cole on the stairs. “You have no idea, but you are gonna pay for your sins.”

“All part of the plan, Harold. All part of the plan,” Blanch said. “Now. Kowalski’s dead and Walsh is next. But he gets to see everything he loves destroyed first. Little thing called payback.”

“But... why?” Cole asked. “What did Jason ever do to you?”

“Oh, see, Walsh and I go way back,” Blanch said. “He cost me my American dream, sent me to prison, ruined me in the eyes of my family. He took everything I loved; now I’m returning the favor. And you know what he loves?”

Cole swallowed. “ _No—_ ”

“Yes you do.” Blanch said. “The Second Squad. He loves you guys. One big dysfunctional family.”

Cole’s heart began to pound. “So your plan is to take us down,” he said. He was surprised at how calm his voice sounded.

“Right now, Matthew Rangel’s having coffee at the Blue Spoon,” Zimsky chimed in. “Beaumont’s too occupied to know that she’s sitting in a gun’s sights, and the shooter’s just awaiting my signal.”

“Allison—”

“Aw, that’s right,” Blanch said, snickering. “ _Your_ partner. What a shame. Meanwhile, we’ve got a little murder-suicide action to arrange...”     

They reached the top of the stairs. Cole counted four doors, all closed save for one. He knew what would happen once they reached that room. He couldn’t wait any longer. If he was going to make a move, it had to be now.

Cole dropped to one knee and grappled the wrist of the guard behind him. Cole pulled hard, hoping to bowl the guy down the stairs. But the guard must have suspected Cole would try something, because he was prepared. He wrenched Cole around, arm-barred his throat, and jabbed the gun up under his ribs.

The whole maneuver bought Cole two minutes, tops.

Blanch shuffled back to Cole, then, shaking his head. “Navan,” he said. “That was foolhardy. There is no sense in getting aggressive.”

“Oh, there’s sense in it,” Cole said. “Just not good sense.” And he drove the heel of his boot down hard onto Noel Blanch’s bare toes.

Several things happened at once then. Blanch screamed. The gun discharged. Cole dived sideways, dragging the guard with him. They plummeted down the stairs, sending Zimsky sprawling. Cole’s head cracked against the banister, sending sprays of sparks across his vision.

Then the pain exploded in his shoulder. Then the front doors burst open. Then shouting and more shots.

And then darkness.

END OF PART FIVE


	6. Last Rites

_The reported shots fired on Broadway and Twenty-eighth turned out to be fireworks illegally launched in the nuptial celebration of Bloomberg and Klein. Mr. and Mrs. Bloomberg, you’re under arrest for disturbing the peace. Mazel tov!_

Leo Banks sat on the concrete step, cradling his head in his hands. His vest was smeared with blood – not his – and he was pretty sure he had bits of glass in his hair. Thing was, Leo couldn’t move. He was petrified. This one had been _too close_. By the time they took the door, Cole had already been shot, kicked in the face, and flung down the stairs. Apparently Amy Burch was chloroformed out of her mind, and no one knew yet if she’d come around.

At this point, Eric would have pointed out that Leo was looking at it the wrong way, that Cole and Amy were alive, and that Second Squad had managed to catch both Zimsky and Blanch.

Then Leo would point out that they hadn’t caught Ryerson yet, and the guy who fired on them at the Waldorf-Astoria was still at large.

And Eric would say, But Zimsky and Blanch, man, those were the king pieces, and couldn’t you just be happy with the fact that the worst part of this nightmare was over?

His phone rang, jarring him from his internal dialogue. He pressed it to his ear. “Eric?”

A light female voice answered. “No, it’s Harper Wrenway,” she said. “And you’re late.”

“I’m late...?” he checked his watch. “Oh—”

“—I know you’re busy, it’s just that something amazing—”

“—No,” Banks said, scraping to his feet. “You’re right. We have an appointment, and I, uh—” He glanced about. Walsh and Shraeger were talking with a pair of uniformed officers. Sergeant Brown was inside with the tech unit. “I’m pretty useless here, anyway,” he said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

* * *

Cole’s eyes flickered open. Lights glared above him, blurring and overbright.

“Hey, Henry. There you are.” The voice was familiar and close. He realized that hearing it had wakened him.

“Allison?”

“Yeah.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m right here.”

“But the shooter—”

“We got ’im, Henry.” she whispered. “You did good.”

“No,” Cole said. But he was fading again. “The other shooter. The one... they said. He said...”

But he was out again and everything was dark.

* * *

The first thing Banks noticed was a rather large dog curled and snoozing on the braided rug.

Harper Wrenway guided him over to gape at it.

“Look!” she said, when he said nothing.

“It’s a... dog,” he said.

“It’s Elsa!”

Banks shook his head. “Elsa? The dead dog?”

“Not dead,” Harper exclaimed. “Sleeping. Apparently she’s narcoleptic. She was asleep the whole time! It’s a miracle, right?”

Banks chuckled. “You put a narcoleptic retriever into a suitcase...”

“It was a dog-napping. Literally!” Harper said, grinning. “When the clinic called, they didn’t know she was ever supposed to have been dead. It’s just amazing. Can you believe it?”

He found his way to her kitchen chair and collapsed. He covered his face with his hands, and for a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying.

“Hey...” she said. “You okay?”

Banks shuddered and lowered his hands. “I’m—not,” he told her. “I'm really not.”

She knelt beside him. “You want some tea?”

“No,” he said. He exhaled a bitter sigh and put his hands on the table. “Look. My partner is dying.”

She sat back on her heels. “The one you’re in a relationship with?”

“What? No,” Banks said. “My partner. Eric. We’re detectives. We detect together. But we’re friends. _Just_ friends. You know what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I get it,” she said. She dragged up a chair so that their knees were touching. Then she nested his hands palms up in hers.

He said, “This case was... it was taxing. We were targets. Well, not really, but some of us were, and we’re like a family – Second Squad, that’s all of us – and when one of us is in trouble, we’re all in trouble, see?”

“I understand,” Harper said, cupping his hand in both of hers. “Go on...”

“So the case is over,” Banks nodded. “Mostly. I mean, it’s down to the paperwork. Only now, life creeps back in and... Eric is still dying.”

“And it’s a problem you don’t know how to solve,” she said.

“Exactly,” he said. “Like I don’t know how to not be afraid. Or how not to put on this vest every day. I don’t know how to... _do_ this. Without him.” Banks smiled. “It does sound gay, doesn’t it?”

She inclined her head. “A little. Maybe you can tell me about it, and I’ll do the reading while you talk.”

Banks felt reluctant because of all the other things pulling at him, like the fact that he should be back at the precinct, filing that paperwork, or that he should call Bridget Demopolis and explain why he hadn’t spoken to her in two days, or that he should track Eric down to see if he was all right.

Oh, and Cole was in the hospital, mustn’t forget that. Nor should he ignore the blood on his vest or the glass in his hair.

She was smoothing her fingers along the lines in his palms though, and he kept talking. And after an hour, Elsa the Narcoleptic Dog got up and rested her graying muzzle on Banks’ knee. He paused and ruffled the dog’s ears. Harper Wrenway gave him a tight smile.

“Surviving a point blank shot gun blast.” She whistled. “That’s massively unlikely. You know that, right?”

“Like a million to one,” Banks answered, laughing. “But he doesn’t believe it.”

“And jumping from that rooftop...” Harper said.

“Should’ve killed him. I know. It’s crazy.”

“Even his girl, Monica—”

“—Dr. Crumb—”

“—Her getting pregnant, like, the first time they were together... That’s pretty uncommon, too.”

Leo grinned. “Or just plain stupid.”

“Even so,” she said. “It all adds up to something pretty astronomical, don’t you think?”

Leo flexed his fingers. “Yeah. _I_ think.”

“Maybe you should tell him,” she said.

Leo shrugged. “Maybe.”

Harper patted his hand and withdrew. “Well,” she said. “Your lifeline’s in tact.  Long and unbroken. That’s a really good sign.”

“So I’m not cursed?” he asked.

“Why would you be cursed?”

He shook his head. “I really have no idea.”

“It’s your life, Detective Banks. You gotta live while you’re alive,” she said. “Anyway, that’s what I believe.”

Leo’s brows knitted. “He said the same thing to me once.”

“Well, there you go,” Harper said.

“Yeah,” he agreed, getting to his feet. “Maybe he does need to hear it.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “Sure thing,” she said. “And thank you, too, for Elsa.” She scrubbed her knuckles over the dog’s forehead. “Her family will be happy to see her.”

Leo’s smile grew abstracted. “Family,” he mumbled. Then he nodded and shook Harper Wrenway’s hand. Suddenly, he knew what he needed to do.

* * *

The night seemed to draw around the precinct like a heavy coat, and Shraeger shivered against the chill. Beaumont and Walsh huddled close, talking in hushed tones over Walsh’s desk. Raindrops spattered the windows, which caught the street lights and headlights and broke them into colored streamers against the glass. She should have felt cheered by the image.

Just like she should have felt overjoyed that her plan had worked. They’d caught Noel Blanch and Harold Zimsky. They even had a lead on Ross Ryerson, now that Rothby was not as afraid of Noel Blanch offing him before the trial. _Really,_ she thought _, she should feel great, like the queen of the world_.

Only the cost had been so high.

Tears welled in her eyes. She pushed them back and checked her phone. No new messages. None from Davis. Not even an annoying check-in text from her Mom. _How sad am I_ , Shraeger thought, _that I get teary-eyed over_ not _receiving the standard worry text from my mother?_

A moment later, a pair of men in dark suits pushed into the precinct office. One was tall, with short-cropped red hair. The other was portly, with dark hair and scraggly sideburns. Both looked as though they’d stepped into mud puddles in their best shoes.

“Okay, people, listen up,” the dark-haired man said. “I’m Special Agent Boyle. This is my partner, Special Agent Rogers. We’re here to confiscate all files pertaining to the Noel Blanch/Harold Zimsky case.”

“What?” Walsh said. “On whose authority?”

Agent Rogers removed an envelope from an interior pocket and passed it to Walsh. “Internal Affairs,” Rogers said. “We’re launching a corruption probe into the Second Precinct, based on the counts listed in this notice. Are you Jason Walsh?”

“I am,” Walsh answered. He glanced from the letter to Beaumont and Shraeger.

“As an individual named herein, please be advised, you are not to leave the state of New York while this investigation is pending,” Boyle said.

“This is insane,” Beaumont yelled. “Jason hasn’t done anything—”

“—That’s for us to ascertain, Detective,” Rogers snapped. “At this time, Walsh must surrender his sidearm and badge. We’re calling for your suspension. Effective immediately.”

“Give me that,” Beaumont snarled, snatching the letter from Walsh.

Meanwhile, Walsh removed his gun and his badge, and cast a worried-yet-resigned look at Shraeger who could only nod that she understood.

Beaumont continued to scan the notice, disbelief wrinkling into her brow. She said, “This says you knew Kowalski set Blanch up six years ago.”

“I _didn’t_ ,” Walsh said.

“It says you knew Noel Blanch, though. Is that true?”

Walsh nodded. “Yeah, I knew him, but—”

Beaumont cut him off with a swipe of her hand. She read on, her eyes widening. When she spoke, her voice was a harsh whisper. “It says you suspected him of... murdering your girlfriend? Jason, do they have a case?”

Boyle primly plucked the notice from Beaumont’s fingers. “We intend to find out,” he said.

Rogers took Walsh’s gun and badge. He said, “We need to speak to your C.O.”

“Right here,” Sergeant Brown said as he entered the office. Eddie Alvarez followed on his heels, his eyes bright and sharp like an over-excited terrier.

Shraeger felt another cold trickle of dread work its way down her spine at the grim look on Brown’s face.

Brown gave a curt nod before he said, “Apparently when Cole opened the projection room at the church, the computer system sent a file to Internal Affairs—”

“—The Frank Lutz sex tape?” Shraeger interrupted. “We already know about it. How does that substantiate an IA investigation?”

“Different tape,” Brown said. “This one was a confession of sorts, created by our dear friends Blanch and Zimsky. In it they detail several very serious claims connecting Noel Blanch and Jason Walsh—”

“—But none of that matters,” Alvarez said. He went to his desk and pulled a four-inch thick accordion file from the lower drawer. He shoved it into Boyle’s hands.

“What’s this?” Boyle spat.

“I’ve been here nearly two years,” Alvarez said. “In that time, I’ve recorded every man-hour on every case that this precinct has worked, by every detective on the squad. Three times, I flagged Internal Affairs for corruption probes into Detective Burt Kowalski; three times they turned a blind eye. But I kept up with my own investigations.”

Rogers narrowed his eyes. “Just what exactly are you getting at?”

Alvarez’ grin grew into a lopsided smile, as if that was precisely the question he’d been waiting for. “I think you’ll find that all traces of corruption dried up in this precinct the moment Detective Kowalski was killed. The only hiccup since then was when Detective Cole was coerced by Frank Lutz to pull a small time camera heist in Soho, but that case was also solved by Detectives Shraeger and Walsh earlier this year.”

Everyone stared agape at Eddie for a full minute before he continued. He said, “Go on and take those files. I sent copies ahead to the Assistant D.A. since she’ll be the one trying the Hand Writing Killer—”

“—Mugger,” Shraeger blurted.

“Whatever,” Eddie said, not missing a beat. “I’m certain that the Commissioner will be interested in learning about the fact that Kowalski ran racket after racket around here for years while Internal Affairs did nothing. In fact, I’ll be sure to tell him myself when my wife and I have dinner with him at Nobu this Thursday.”

Sergeant Brown tucked his tongue in his cheek and winked at Shraeger. “Well, gentlemen,” Brown said. “You can run along. Oh, and, Walsh’ll be needing his gun and badge, ’cause I’m never signing that suspension order.”

Rogers looked like he wanted to pound Eddie Alvarez in the face. Boyle merely glared at them before he motioned to Rogers to do as Brown asked.

Rogers sneered at Alvarez, then at Walsh. He said, “You’ll be hearing from us.”

“Countin’ on it,” Alvarez said. He clicked his tongue and winked.

They left, then, taking Alvarez’ files with them.

After several seconds of stunned silence, Beaumont said, “What the hell just happened?”

Shraeger shook her head in disbelief. “ _Eddie_ just happened.”

“I’ll be damned,” Walsh said, clasping Eddie’s hand. “Second Precinct’s secret weapon.”

“Yeah?” Alvarez said. His face brightened. “Well, what good are connections if you can’t use 'em, right?” Then he sobered. “But it is true,” he added. “Since Kowalski died, since Shraeger came... Second Squad has been—”

“—Better,” Walsh finished.

A moment later, Beaumont nodded. “Better,” she agreed.

“All right,” Sergeant Brown groaned. “Enough with the huggy-feely. We’re due at the hospital. And after: drinks. I’m buying. Now get your asses out of here.”

* * *

Beaumont brushed the hair from his forehead with her knuckles and whispered, “Ted? You with us?”

The corner of Cole’s mouth quirked up. He groaned, “Alice?”

“Ha, you were right,” Walsh said. “It worked.”

“Jason?” Cole said. “Allison?”

“It’s us,” Beaumont said. “We’re all here, but they won’t let us in all at once.”

“Where’s here?” Cole shifted painfully in his bed.

“No no no,” Beaumont cautioned, nudging him back into his pillows. “You’re in the ICU. Remember, gun shot?”

Cole licked his lips. “Now... we’re even, huh? Matching... scars.”

“That’s right,” Beaumont said. She brushed his hair back again. “And it’s all over. We got the guys who did this to us. They’re gonna pay, right and proper, okay?”

“Other one, too?” Cole said.

Beaumont glanced at Walsh. “He mentioned that before. In the ambulance.”

“What other one?” Walsh asked. “Ryerson?”

Cole’s brows furrowed. “Maybe? They said they... had you... in their sights. Waiting signal.”

Walsh scratched his jaw and shrugged. “Bluffing, maybe?”

“Or the signal was never given,” Beaumont said quietly.

“I’ll call it in,” Walsh said. “Have the uniforms search within the line-of-sight of the Blue Spoon. Maybe they’ll turn up something...”

Walsh left. A few moments later, Shraeger entered.

“Hey, Cole,” she said, her voice thin and tremulous.

“Plan,” he muttered, a faint smile touching his lips. “Worked.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“And Amy?”

“In the next room,” Shraeger said with a nod. “They say she’ll be fine. She’s on a respirator, because of the chloroform...”

But Cole’s eyes had fluttered shut almost as soon as Shraeger had started speaking. She looked with concern to Beaumont, who took Cole’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Oh, Henry,” Beaumont whispered. “After all you’ve been through, you’re still worried about _her_?”

For a long moment, he breathed in long slow breaths, and Shraeger and Beaumont believed that he had drifted back into drug-induced sleep.

Then his eyes slid open again. He muttered, slowly, laboriously forming the words: “In pardoning, we are pardoned. In dying... we are born... to eternal life.”

“Nobody’s dying, Cole,” Shraeger said firmly. “You’re not gonna die—”

“—It’s okay,” Beaumont said. “It’s a prayer. St. Francis of Assisi. Cole’s just saying a prayer.”

Shraeger clenched her jaw against her tears. “Oh,” she said. “Then okay.”

Beaumont pulled her into a side hug. Then she said, “Pardoning. Can you believe that?”

“Believe what?” Shraeger asked.

“He’s gonna forgive her.” Now Beaumont looked as though she had to fight off tears of her own. “After what she did, he’s willing to let it go. Hell, he probably already has.”

Shraeger shook her head. Against the starched white of the hospital bed, Cole looked so young and fragile and pale. Tubes draped over the rail, running to an IV in his arm and the respirator in his nose. Sure, he was alive, but his forehead bore the tell-tale pinch of pain that existed beneath the layers of morphine haze, and he looked so vulnerable...

Suddenly, she didn’t like the idea of Amy Burch one room over. She wondered if they could persuade the doctors to move her so that Amy couldn’t just slide next door once she was able and be at his side, worrying over him, after she’d broken his heart and slept with his sworn enemy/mentor/best friend.

Beaumont raised her shoulders in a resigned sort of sigh. She said, “But that’s Henry for you. That’s what makes him such a great guy.”

“Shouldn’t we...?”

“We can’t. Much as I’d like to rip out every hair on her head,” Beaumont went on, speaking quietly through her teeth. “Henry expects better. We have to trust that he can take care of himself. Now let’s go. I think he’s out for the night.”

Shraeger drew a deep breath and nodded. As they left, she couldn’t help but feel partly responsible for Cole’s predicament. If they’d been able to respond faster. If the GPS tracker had been more accurate. If, maybe, perhaps...

Henry had been prepared to give his life, Shraeger knew. That was the kind of man he was. And she’d exploited that by sending him directly into harm. Now he was half dead in a hospital room, weakened and helpless.

That, she knew, would trouble her for a while.

* * *

Eric Delahoy stared at the statistics page of the Spider Solitaire game on his laptop, which proclaimed that he had played 5,142 games.

He felt vaguely depressed by this achievement. He’d bought the computer in February to replace the desktop he’d had since college. Since then it had been little more than a glorified paperweight. Or, as the stats page proved, a six hundred dollar solitaire playing machine.

But playing Solitaire kept his mind occupied, so he didn’t have to think about Monica’s printouts. Oh, he’d read them, all twelve of them. And they were horrid, down to the last.

He shoved the laptop away and drew his blanket around his shoulders. He had a frustrating number of conflicting desires buzzing around his cluttered brain. Hungry; didn’t want to eat. Tired; didn’t want to sleep. Bored; see above, RE: tired. 

That was why, when the knock sounded on the door, he merely called out, “It’s open,” and remained where he was, staring at the spangles of rain across his windows.

Leo came to the corner of the sofa.

“Oh it’s you,” Eric said.

“It’s dark in here,” Leo observed.

“Yeah, well, the light hurts my eyes,” Eric said. “What do you want?”

Leo pulled a black vinyl sticker from his pocket and passed it to Eric. “I found this stapled to the board by your desk,” he said.

Eric didn’t have to look at it to know what it was. He chuckled, bitterly. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “That’s your brilliant advice: _Never Give Up_. Gee, I wish you’d told me that six months ago. I’d have so much less cancer right now.”

“Always with the jokes...”

“Save it, all right? I already heard it from Monica. Oh, and by the way, it’s a heartless bitch who throws a dying man out on the street—”

“—Yeah, but it’s not surprising,” Leo said. “She’s in love with you.”

Eric winced like he’d been slapped. “What?”

“She’s hurt and she’s afraid.” Leo edged onto the arm of the sofa. “I went to the Belvedere to find you. Found her instead. We talked. I took her back home.”

“But—”

“It’s all right, she’s safe. We got Blanch and Zimsky. But she says she’s gonna stay with her folks for a while.”

Eric covered his eyes, then scrubbed his hands over his face.  

Leo added, “She left the address.”

They sat a while in silence before Eric spoke again. He said, “She gave me these packets, these treatment briefs, or whatever.” Eric took them from the desk and brandished them at Leo.

“She told me,” Leo said.

“So I read them. And.” He blew out a breath. “They’re like bad sci-fi, man. Like this one—” Eric thumbed to the third printout. “In this one they cut through my skull and blast my tumor-riddled brain with photon beam radiation. Photon, it says that, right here, like something out of _Star Trek,_ you know?”

“But it’s—”

“Wait, there’s more,” Eric ranted. “How about dendritic cell vaccination? Survival rate: Eight out of every one hundred. Or viral-based gene therapy? Fourteen out of every one hundred. And then my personal favorite: localized chemotherapy, where they insert irradiated wafers directly into my brain.” Eric chuckled darkly. “Best part of this one: it could increase my life expectancy by _two whole months_. Two months? Of course, I’d be violently, horrifyingly ill the entire time, but two months of life is still life. Never give up, am I right?”

Leo stared at his hands. “I-I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you’re right. It’s your life. It should be your death. I mean, everyone says a positive attitude can make a difference—”

“—and what if it can’t?” Eric cut in. “Hm? What then? Even the best of these treatments has a failure rate of eighty-six percent. Eighty-six percent? Out of every hundred poor saps who risk it, eighty-six of them die anyway?”

“Eric,” Leo said. “I’m gonna say something that will sound crazy, and coming from me... well, you know I use plastic cutlery because I think forks are dangerous, so...”

“Really?” Eric said. “ _Forks_?”

"Beside the point, man." Leo grimaced. “Look. You’ve survived all this whacked out stuff to get to this point. So I think... there must be a reason.”

Eric rolled his eyes and began to turn away, but Leo touched his shoulder.

“C’mon, hear me out,” he said. “If there’s a procedure in there with a ninety-nine percent failure rate, if only one out of every hundred survives, then... I believe you’d be the one to make it through.”

“Oh, you _believe_ that, do you?”

“Yes,” Leo said.

“Why?”

“Dude. You survived a shotgun blast to the face. You took on a guy with a sword—”

“—Don’t forget the light saber—”

“—Who could forget the light saber?” Leo said. “It’s just, I don’t believe it’s your time to die—”

“—All right, enough,” Eric snapped. “Leo. Enough. I know how the world works, okay. I know that irony would have me go through all this, then die anyway. I’m not gonna play that game. What I will do is die by my own terms. Because...” He shook his head. “Because it hurts less when you have nothing to lose.”

“But that’s just it,” Leo said. “You _have_ something to lose. You have a family, Eric. You have Monica. The kid. Second Squad... Me.”

Now Eric did look away. He willed Leo to just stop talking and leave.

Leo got to his feet. “I guess the question is, when will you lose it? Now?” he asked. “A month from now? You really think it’ll hurt less by letting it go today?”

Eric swallowed. His throat felt like it was lined with ground glass. He said, “You done?”

Leo hovered a moment longer. Then he slid the sticker onto the keyboard of Eric’s computer and said, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Good,” Eric said. He pulled the laptop from his desk and clicked the icon to deal another game of Solitaire. Leo lingered another minute or so before he finally left.

When he was gone, Eric crumpled the sticker into an unwieldy ball and tossed it across the room. Then, feeling both wretched and like an idiot, he retrieved it and smoothed it flat. He flipped it over and found the number and address to Monica’s parent’s house in Newark written on the back.

A lifeline, Eric realized. Anger flared inside him. Anger at Leo’s insanely frustrating persistence. Monica’s too, for that matter. And now they were co-conspirators. Why the hell wouldn’t they just leave him alone? At least when he was alone...

He stared at the cards on the Solitaire screen until they blurred. His apartment felt coldly cramped and humid. The street below droned like a noisy, growling beast. The city ticked by, seven million people, each one inching closer to death second by second by second. Eric had been on the force long enough to know how the lonely people died – shut up in their apartments until the smell alerted the neighbors that _something_ next door had gone south.

If that was the face of his future, it wasn’t a pleasant picture.

On the other hand, they wanted him to face months of grueling pain, followed by years of torturous recovery, with the very real prospect of death, possibly losing motor control, and maybe even losing the ability to speak or walk or read ever again.

Would they be there with him through all of that? Did they really understand what they were asking?

Did _he_? _Really?_

Wasn’t that why Monica came to find him? Hadn’t she said she didn’t want to raise _their child_ without him? And did that mean...? And Leo, infuriatingly tenacious bastard that he was, didn’t he just say that they were family, that he’d be there?

Eric shut down the computer. He picked up the sticker (stupid sticker, from his own damn desk. His greatest ally really  _was_  his own mind) and moved to the sofa. He sank into the cushions, pulled out his phone, and dialed.

* * *

Walsh could tell from the way Beaumont kept squinting into the middle ground that she would have his ass later on. It was all right, though. He had it coming. He hadn’t told her about Blanch, and he should have. He only hoped she’d forgive him this time since it was the last secret he had. Well, he thought, _almost_ the last.

They gathered at the bar of the Apolo: Walsh, Beaumont, Shraeger, Alvarez, and Sergeant Brown, who was still on the phone, despite his attempts to join them.

Everyone else seemed to be doing a decent job of knocking off from work... Except Shraeger. She glowered into her whiskey, spinning the tumbler restlessly between her hands and alternately tapping her phone to check for messages.

Walsh elbowed in beside her. “Hey, Champ.”

She pursed her lips. He knew _that_ look.

He said, “So... what’s up?”

“Cole almost died,” she said.

“Yep.” Walsh nodded. “But he didn’t die.”

“No, but he could have,” Shraeger hissed. “The plan— _my_ plan—put him in too much danger, and he’s seriously injured, and it’s all my fault, and you’re all acting like it’s all okay, and it’s not okay!”

“Whoa there,” Walsh said. “We caught the bad guys, right? Cole knew the risks, Case. We all do.”

“And he’s gonna be okay,” Beaumont said, sidling in alongside Walsh. “Believe me. He’s tougher than he looks.”

“See?” Walsh raised his bottle. “So, drink up and let it go,” he said. “That’s how we do this job. Right Sarge?”

“That’s right.” Sergeant Brown joined them and motioned for the bartender. “We’ll have plenty to worry us tomorrow. Uniforms found candy wrappers and an empty bottle of Mountain Dew in a walk-up on Chambers, within line-of-sight of the Blue Spoon. Possibly a nest for a shooter. CSU’s dusting for prints. We’ll know more in the morning...”

“And Ryerson?” Shraeger asked.

“That’s a matter for the Feds,” Alvarez chimed in. “As of 6 p.m., that cowboy’s on their list. He’ll have no place to hide. Also, Nicole called. She got Rothby’s testimony. That plus the recording James Boorland made in holding this afternoon is enough to put Zimsky and Blanch away for a long, long time.”

Sergeant Brown looked mildly annoyed with Alvarez but ignored it. “Our part in this is done,” Brown said. “No more worries, all right? Sometimes you get everyone. Sometimes they slip away. It’s not always our call.”

“Okay,” Shraeger agreed half-heartedly. “I know. I do. It’s just, the cost...”

“It’s worth it,” Beaumont said. She nudged Shraeger and pointed at the door. Davis stood there, his hand on the glass, as if uncertain whether he should interrupt their moment.

She nearly toppled from her barstool in her haste to get to him. After a clumsy kiss, she stared up at him and asked, “How’d you know we were here?”

“Jason called me,” Davis admitted. “Seems I’ve been initiated into the Inner Sanctum.”

She shot a look over her shoulder at Walsh, who tipped them a salute and returned to his conversation with Beaumont.

“It’s about time,” Shraeger said. “The Outer Sanctum is nowhere near as fun.”

“Do you have a secret password?” he asked, fitting his hand into hers.

“A secret induction ritual, too,” she told him as she dragged him to the bar.

“Really?” he asked. “Can I see it?”

She stood on tiptoe and whispered the answer into his ear. A grin spread across his face as Shraeger put in their order. “Drink up and let it go, right?” she said.

The others raised their drinks in a toast. “Until tomorrow,” Walsh added.

Shraeger nestled against Davis and closed her eyes. “Until tomorrow...”

* * *

On Tuesday morning, Eric Delahoy woke at 7 a.m. He put on a decent suit and tie. He ate breakfast, trimmed his mustache, brushed his teeth. He even flossed (he never used to floss; this was entirely Monica’s influence).

He took the Blue Line, Number 16. This was new, as well. He didn’t take buses. Any errands he had, he did on precinct time, in a precinct car.

Today was different.

At Dr. Kinslow’s office, he went in, sat in the same hard plastic chair he sat in last week, and waited. He thought of Monica sitting with him, her self-proclaimed first act as his girlfriend. He remembered the street grime on her trousers, her tiny feet and sensible shoes, the tough set of her jaw, her sober eyes. He recalled feeling with every second the growing need to run away, screaming...

She’d said, ‘You’ve come this far, Eric. Why not go the rest of the way?’

He drummed his hands on his knees. He tried to calm his breathing. When that failed, he reached for a magazine, just as the nurse called his name.

Then he was in the office of Dr. Glenn Kinslow, FACS. The doctor shook his hand. Dr. Potato Head, Eric remembered. He grinned.

“It’s good to see you in better spirits, Mr. Delahoy,” Dr. Kinslow said.

Eric cleared his throat. “Yeah, about that,” he said. He sat down, then stood back up. He flexed the tension from his hands. “I’d, uh...” He wiped his mouth. “I, um,” he said. “I’d like to talk about... some kind of... alternate treatment.”

Dr. Kinslow smiled. He folded his hands on the desk. “That’s good,” he said. “Have a seat, and we’ll talk about your options. All right?”

“Yeah,” Eric said. “All right.”

After all, he’d come this far... why shouldn’t he go the rest of the way?

* * *

“You wanted to see me?” Shraeger said, closing the door behind her.

“I do,” Sergeant Brown said. He motioned her to the seat, and she took it.

“Good,” she said. “Because I have a... I guess you could say I have a concern.”

Brown’s mouth puckered like he’d bitten into something sour. “Go on.”

She steepled her hands. “It’s about Blanch and Zimsky,” she said. “See, it bothers me that they never really seemed worried about going to jail. That, plus the fact that Ryerson was a prison guard leads me to believe...” One glance at the Sergeant’s expression and Shraeger’s words ran out. “What?”

“The truth of it is this, Detective: Prison doesn’t change reality for guys like Noel Blanch and Harold Zimsky. The fact that all of this was timed with Jeff Blanch’s sentencing is not a coincidence.”

“What?” Shraeger said, baffled. “What do you mean?”

“A stone wall does not a prison make,” he said. “Nor iron bars—”

“—A cage,” Shraeger finished. “You mean they can operate from _within prison_?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” he said. “They can run their games from inside just as easily as they can from without. Easier, maybe. Inside, they’re untouchable.”

She shook her head, irresolute. “Unbelievable.”

“You’d be surprised,” Brown said. After a beat, he said, “This came today.” He passed her a letter.

She read it and looked up, confused. “Medical leave?”

“He wants to keep it quiet,” Brown said.

“Does Leo—”

“—Banks knows. But it means he’ll need a partner. Which brings me to this,” the Sergeant said. He handed her another document, this one marked with an official NYPD seal.

For a moment, her voice failed her. Then she managed to mutter, “But this is...”

“Alvarez has been promoted to Sergeant. He’s transferring to the Two-two at the end of this week. Which means you’re moving into his spot. You’re now second in command. Congratulations—”

“—But I—”

“—Yeah, yeah. Least experienced officer, less than a year on the Squad,” He waved a hand. “Look, you shouldn’t be surprised. You’re good at this. And you got the support of your team. I already spoke with Walsh...”

Shraeger swallowed. “You did?”

Sergeant Brown nodded. “He agreed, one hundred percent.”

“That’s ’cause he doesn’t want the job,” she said under her breath.

“It’s high profile. A lot of talking with press. A lot of diplomacy. It’s a finesse thing. Not really Jason’s style. You, on the other hand...”

Shraeger breathed in. “You’re right,” she exhaled. “I’m used to high profile. It’s... kind of what I was hoping to avoid.”

“You can handle this,” Sergeant Brown said. “And you’d be able to do a lot of good, for the city and for Second Squad.”

“Can I think about it?”

Brown tilted his head. “I’ll need an answer before Friday.”

“That I can do,” Shraeger said. “And so... would Banks be Walsh’s partner?” she added, doubtfully.

“You got a better idea?”

“Well...” she began. “Walsh would work better with Cole. I’d put Banks with Beaumont. Or maybe...” she tapped her fingers to her lips. “Maybe they could not have assigned partners at all. Maybe they could just collaborate, you know, switch up as needed. Be a team.”

“And there you go.” Sergeant Brown gave her a sage nod. “Your first act as Detective Specialist Shraeger.” He shook her hand. “Now get out there and solve some crimes, will ya?”

Shraeger shut the door behind her and drifted, dazed, across the hall. Walsh met her at her desk.

“So he told you?”

“Hm?” She met his eyes. “Oh. Yes.”

“And?”

“Haven’t decided,” she said. “And apparently, you’ll no longer have partners. Once Cole returns, you’ll officially be a team of four.”

Walsh’s brow furrowed. “We’d be a team of five, Case.”

“No, but I’m... If I take Alvarez’ place, it means...”

“...We’ll still work together,” Walsh said.

She smiled, obviously touched at the idea. “Yeah?”

“Of course.” Walsh sat down at his desk and leaned back in his chair. “And if anything goes wrong, it’ll be all your fault.”

“Thanks,” Shraeger deadpanned.

He beamed. “Don’t mention it.”

Shraeger stared blankly at her desk. Walsh said, “You know you’re gonna do it, so you might as tell him now and get it over with.”

“Shhh!” she hissed as Sergeant Brown peeked in.

“Got a case,” the Sergeant said. “Who’s catching?”

Shraeger glanced around: Beaumont was visiting Cole, Banks hadn’t made it in yet, and Delahoy...

“Looks like it’s us, Sarge,” Walsh said, getting to his feet.

Shraeger joined him. “What’ve we got?”

The Sergeant passed her the case file and left. Walsh opened it between them, and they began to read.

“So,” Shraeger said. “Suspect is a woman between the ages of fifty and sixty who robbed three pharmacies in as many weeks with a... game controller?”

“Nice.” Walsh read on. “Last seen in Columbus Circle on a Segway taken from a TrumpTower security guard.” Walsh gave Shraeger a knowing look. “See?” he said. “Just like old times.”

“Yep,” she said. “So... you wanna go bust us a Segway-stealing Granny?”

“Hell yes,” Walsh agreed, and they together headed down the stairs.

THE END


End file.
